


The Dew of Little Things

by HugeAlienPie



Series: Deweyverse [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek Hale, Captivity, Childbirth, Developing Relationship, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, Genderfluid Character, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Euthanasia, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Misgendering, Misogyny, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Parent Derek Hale, Parent Stiles, Past Derek Hale/Paige Krasikeva, Past Erica Reyes/Stiles Stilinski, Past Jennifer Blake/Derek Hale, Racism, Swearing, Teacher Stiles, Top Stiles Stilinski, Translator Derek, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 90,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek packs up his life and his kid and moves back to Beacon Hills, the word he's thinking is <em>family</em>, not <em>romance</em>. Then he meets Dewey's new teacher, Mr. Stilinski, and starts thinking about the word <em>forever</em>. But between the scheming pack next door, the relentless single moms of Beacon Hills Elementary, and the magnet for chaos that is Dewey Hale, forever's looking hard to come by.</p><p>At this point, Derek will settle for one real date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Eyes Have It

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a musing on Derek Hale and guilt turned into a sprawling undertaking incorporating a half-jillion of my favorite tropes. I hope you have even half as much fun reading it as I've had writing it.
> 
> A million thanks as always to my rock-star beta, [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi/), and to Dewey Hale's #1 cheerleader, [the_wordbutler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler). Without them, I'd be on an uninspired and poorly punctuated ship.

_For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed._ –Khalil Gibran

**_September 2, 2021_ **

"Here you go, Mr. Hale." The office secretary ("Jared," his name plaque says, the last name obscured by the leaves of the out-of-control jade plant sitting beside it) leans too close as he pushes a piece of paper across the counter. "Dewey's daily schedule, room number, teacher's name, and everything else you need to know about sending your child to school at Beacon Hills Elementary."

Derek nods and offers a smile he hopes looks friendly but nonthreatening and doesn't reveal his urge to creep away from this overfamiliar man who talks _about_ kids instead of _to_ them. "Thanks," he says. He hears a scrabbling noise beside him and looks down to see Dewey hanging off the edge of the counter, her small, patent-leather-clad feet scrambling to gain purchase on its smooth surface. He snorts and leans down to scoop the kid up. "Oh no, monkey," he says, lowering Dewey to the floor. "Don't climb the nice man's counter." He looks at the paper Jared's handed him. "Where's Mr. Stilinski's classroom?" he asks.

Jared makes a face Derek can't decipher. "Don't you want to visit Vice Principal Hale first? Her office is right back here." He gestures, looking absurdly pleased with himself. Derek wonders if he's expecting praise for making the connection between Laura and Derek. As if it isn't abundantly clear by looking that he and Dewey are related to Laura, even without knowing they share a last name. Dewey got the wave and lighter brown of her hair from her mother, but her emotive eyebrows and the pale green eyes under them are all Hale.

Derek gives Jared a tight look and shuffles Dewey around. "No thanks; we want to see the classroom first."

Jared looks displeased, whether by Derek's tone or by this Mr. Stilinski, Derek isn't sure. "First grade hallway," Jared says. "When you leave the office, turn right to go down the kindergarten hallway—that's the yellow one—then turn left into the green hallway. That's first grade. Mr. Stilinski's the second door on the left."

"Thank you," Derek says. "Let's go, monkey." He presses the schedule into Dewey's warm hand and leads them out of the office.

The bright yellow paint of the kindergarten hallway assaults Derek's sensitive werewolf eyes, but it's a useful change from when he went to school here, what feels like a century ago. He remembers spending much of the first weeks of first and second grades helping sobbing human kids who, lacking keen supernatural senses, had gotten lost on their way to class. He nudges Dewey. "Keep your eyes open. You should be able to find your room by sight and route as well as scent."

Practically skipping at his side, swinging their joined hands between them, Dewey nods. "Okay, Daddy," is all she says, because somehow an anxiety- and depression-prone werewolf and a literally insane Druid managed to produce the most easygoing child Derek's ever encountered. "What kind of name is Sti-lin-ski?" She pronounces each syllable with extreme care.

"Polish," Derek says. "Poland is in Europe." He squeezes her hand. "When we get home, I'll help you find it on the globe."

"Awesome!" Dewey shouts, and Derek doesn't have it in him to shush her. A mix of protectiveness and envy stabs through him. He wishes he could keep Dewey at this age forever, when it only takes learning about a new country to make a day perfect. And he wishes his own joy were still that easily found.

They turn the corner into a hall painted a green as eye-searing as the yellow. They find the second door on the left and Derek opens it, following Dewey into the room.

And his

whole

life

changes.

The scent hits him first.

When werewolves try to explain people's scents to humans, they usually say someone smells "like cinnamon" or "like lilacs." But that isn't right; unless the person is a baker or a gardener, they _don't_ smell like cinnamon or lilacs, their scent just contains similar notes. Derek has always chafed at the imprecision. And yet he finds himself helpless to describe the scent that greets him as he enters Mr. Stilinski's classroom in more exact terms. First comes something bright and fiery, like ginger. Then something cool, like spearmint. And under that, something grounded and rich, like the forest after an October rainstorm. The scent rolls over him, into his pores; he longs to dive into it and roll around, press it into his flesh.

And then flashes of sight, glimpses of a man: tall and lithe, broad shoulders, pale skin, a scattering of moles, messy brown hair.

And a ladder that wobbles alarmingly.

Derek rushes forward before he entirely thinks it through, hands clamping onto the ladder to hold it steady. Only when the man on the ladder yells "Whoa!" and spins around does Derek take in his unfortunate proximity to Mr. Stilinski's . . . everything. From here, it wouldn't be much of a lean forward to bury his face in the guy's crotch, and it would be a movement of mere inches to rest his hands on Mr. Stilinski's denim-clad ass. He swallows painfully and looks up, past a striped sweater-vest and polka-dot bow tie into the most striking amber eyes he's ever seen, eyes he thinks could see straight into his soul. He'd be happy to let them.

"Derek Hale," Mr. Stilinski breathes.

Derek blinks up at him. "Mr. Stilinski?" he asks, his voice lower, raspier than usual.

Those stunning eyes flick to Dewey, who's watching the scene with her usual curiosity. A broad, delighted smile lights the teacher's face, and Derek's breath catches in his throat. "And the legendary Dewey!" Mr. Stilinski says.

Dewey goes on alert. Her expression shutters, and she crosses her arms in a gesture Derek recognizes as his own. "How do you know my name?" she demands, and Derek regrets every turn that led to his six-year-old kid holding such deep distrust and paranoia toward strangers.

Mr. Stilinski tilts his head, looking like an adorably befuddled dog. "Well, I—" He bats at Derek's arm until Derek lets go of the ladder. He slithers to the ground and crouches in front of Dewey but keeps a respectful distance. "I work with your Aunt Laura," he tells her, "and my dad works with your Uncle Jordan. I'm friends with Erica and Boyd and—" He cuts off and smiles brightly. Derek can see that Dewey is torn between holding onto her mistrust and letting herself be charmed. God knows Derek is more than halfway charmed himself. Dewey gives a noncommittal hum, and Mr. Stilinski stands. "Would you like the grand tour?" he says with a dramatic sweep of his arm. Dewey giggled and nods, and they're off.

Mr. Stilinski shows Dewey around the areas of his forest-themed classroom: Art Arbor, Book Brook, Time-Out Tree. It's a bit precious for Derek's tastes, but Dewey's expression opens and her eyes brighten with every new discovery, so he gives the guy credit for knowing his audience. His editorial asides provide insight into his teaching style, as well: "Time-out should give them a chance to think about why what they did is wrong, rather than sulk about being punished." "Some kids like that reading's a quiet activity, but others need it to be more active or they tune out." Given the constant motion of Mr. Stilinski's body, even when he's standing still, Derek guesses he's one of those others. By the time they've makes a full circuit of the room, Derek's completely on-board with leaving his kid in Mr. Stilinski's care, and he can tell Dewey feels the same.

"All right, Dewey," Mr. Stilinski says when the tour ends, "I need to talk to your dad for a minute. Boring grown-up stuff. Would you rather read, draw, or raid the toy chest?"

"Draw!" Dewey says instantly, and Derek's proud of her creative drive at the same time he's stifling a pang of loss and regret, because those artistic tendencies came from Jen.

Mr. Stilinski sets Dewey up with paper and crayons, and Dewey's face twists in determined concentration when she says, "Thank you, Mr. Sti-lin-ski."

He grins. "You're very welcome, Dewey." He crosses back to Derek, and they stand beside the closed doorway, near the wobbly ladder where, Derek realizes, Mr. Stilinski has been hanging finned, gilled construction paper "bookfish" from the ceiling above Book Brook.

Derek watches Dewey dive into her drawing, already lost to the world beyond the edge of the page. "You don't let them call you 'Mr. S.'?"

"Oh, no." He shakes his head. "This town isn't exactly a hotbed of diversity. It's up to me, Boyd, and Ms. Yukimura in the K wing to prepare the Smiths and Joneses of Beacon Hills Elementary for a world outside of English postcolonialism."

Derek snorts. "That's ambitious."

Mr. Stilinski beams. "Aim for the stars; you'll end up with cheese." When Derek stares with his mouth hanging slightly open, his grin turns sheepish and a faint blush dusts his cheeks. Derek wants to find out how far down that blush goes. "Sorry," Mr. Stilinski mutters. "Perils of talking mostly to six-year-olds." They look toward Dewey, and Mr. Stilinski says, "That's a great kid." Derek grins, absurdly pleased by the praise. "I'm so glad you guys are finally here. Your sisters and the kids haven't been talking about much else for months."

Derek's eyes narrow. Yeah, he's been on the fringes of pack life while he's been in New York, but if this guy's as close as he claims—close enough to know the kids and what they talk about—then somebody, at some point, should've mentioned him. And for sure no one's mentioned a Włodzimiers Stilinski.

But. He's still talking. Derek forces himself to pay attention and makes a note to ask Laura as soon as he sees her. "I'm looking forward to having Dewey in my class. Anything I should know about them?"

Derek raises startled eyebrows at the pronoun choice. Mr. Stilinski folds his hands and looks placidly back. "It sounds like you already know," Derek says.

Mr. Stilinski shrugs. "Erica and Boyd have said a couple things. It's better to hear it from you."

Derek exhales hard and sticks his hands in his pants pockets, ceding a contest he isn't sure the exact point of. "Dewey was assigned female at birth," he says. When Mr. Stilinski nods, Derek continues, "and about 70 percent of the time, that's fine. But some days are boy days, and some days are . . . something else days." For the first time since he entered the room, Derek puts on his "overprotective werewolf dad" face, as Cora calls it. "If that's a problem, we'll transfer to another teacher."

Weirdly, the threat seems to please Mr. Stilinski, who smiles broadly and holds up his hands in a strange position that's either a placating gesture or an invitation to a double high-five—which Derek doesn't give. "Hey, no, no problems here," Mr. Stilinski promises. "Am I allowed to ask which are the right pronouns every day?"

Instantly, Derek relaxes. "Dewey would love that," he says.

"Great," Mr. Stilinski says, and then raises his voice. "Hey, Dewey?"

Dewey looks up, eyes glazed as she tries to come back from wherever she goes while she's drawing. "Yeah?"

"What pronouns would you like me to use for you today?"

The haze clears, and Dewey graces them with her widest, most genuine smile. The man in the bow tie and paint-spattered jeans has captured the kid's heart forever. "'She' and 'her,' please!" She's back to her drawing before he has time to formulate any response.

Mr. Stilinski grins at Dewey's bowed head and looks back at Derek. "What else?" He keeps his voice low, forcing Derek to lean into his space. Mr. Stilinski's scent has been a constant but ignorable presence the whole time, but now it roars back into Derek's awareness, so potent he can barely concentrate on anything else. He takes shallow breaths and forces himself to look at the other man's eyes rather than at the full lips he'd like to be kissing. Not that the eyes, with their warm tones and fathomless depths, are much safer.

"You've seen the important stuff," he says. "Cautious around strangers, but once you pass the test, you're BFFs for life." He pauses, grimacing. "Which is redundant, isn't it?" Mr. Stilinski laughs, and, wow, is the floor moving? Because Derek's stomach is doing a swoop he normally associates with roller coasters.

"Thank goodness," Mr. Stilinski says. "I need all the friends I can get. And she's aware, right?"

Derek cocks his head. "Aware of what?"

For a long beat, they look at each other. Then Mr. Stilinski's eyes widen, and he bursts into peals of raucous laughter. "Oh, god," he wheezes, "oh, crap, that is—Derek, promise me you will _never_ tell Laura or Erica about this. They'll never let me live it down." As Mr. Stilinski struggles to rein himself in, he presses one hand on his side and rests the other on Derek's sleeve. Derek's arm starts to tingle. "I meant," Mr. Stilinski says, "that Dewey's a werewolf."

Derek's body jerks into crisis mode. He drops into a shallow crouch, hands raised, heart pounding, body tensed for fight or flight. "What," he growls.

Across the room, Dewey adopts a similar pose, half out of her chair, eyes wide and staring. "You're not supposed to know that!" she shrieks.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Mr. Stilinski holds up both hands. "I'm sorry, I thought you—" He gives Derek an unreadable look. One hand lowers; the other rubs the back of his neck. "Friends with Laura, Boyd, and Erica, remember? They didn't mention me? At all?" Derek stares at him flatly, and he sighs. "Here, look." Mr. Stilinski takes three loping strides to his desk and returns with a crude wooden picture frame that looks like it was made by a child. It has a moon at each corner, two full, two new, and the word "FAMILY" in uneven block letters along each side.

The picture in the frame shows Mr. Stilinski with his arm around the shoulders of a man his own age, skin a little darker than his, with wavy, dark brown hair and a wide smile that could legitimately be the origin of puppies and rainbows. Behind them stands a beautiful woman with black curls and a knowing look in her brown eyes and a man with short, salt-and-pepper hair and kind crinkles beside his blue eyes. He looks familiar to Derek, but an association doesn't come to mind, and besides, he has more important things to worry about. Mr. Stilinski points at the young man beside him in the picture. "That's my stepbrother Scott," he says. "He was turned when we were 16, so I have a lot of experience with new werewolves."

"Scott?" Derek says, his voice taking on a slightly hysterical creak as pieces fall into place. "Scott _McCall_? Your stepbrother is _Alpha McCall_?"

Mr. Stilinski grins. "Yeah." He shakes his head. "Man, it's weird when people call him that! To me, he'll always be my little Scotty."

Derek smiles despite himself and relaxes his stance. This isn't what he expected from his first meeting with Dewey's teacher, and while he feels shaken and a little ambushed, he also feels he's been given a gift. Derek and his siblings were homeschooled until they could control their shift, strength, and speed in public. What a blessing this would have been: to start their school careers with a teacher who knew they were supernatural beings and how to deal with that. And maybe . . . maybe . . . "Look," Derek says, uncertain but determined, "as long as we're talking about this—" He looks at Dewey. "Dewey, for the next couple minutes, I want you to focus on the things you can smell in this classroom."

Dewey beams. "Okay, Daddy!"

Mr. Stilinski chuckles. "Nice."

"Old werewolf parenting trick. Get them focused on one sense, and the others dial way down. Our parents did it all the time." He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "You know about Dewey's mother?"

Mr. Stilinski nods, and his expression turns serious. "Yeah," he says gently. "Has Dewey shown signs of magic yet?"

Derek's eyes widen. "She's _six_."

Mr. Stilinski shrugs and dances long fingers along the edges of his ridiculous picture frame. "Six is around the age magic starts manifesting in kids who've been as immersed in the supernatural as Dewey has," he says.

Derek thinks about the life they've has these past few years, the way Dewey draws in chaos like an old friend. "Things can be . . . unpredictable around her," he admits. The corner of Mr. Stilinski's mouth quirks up, and Derek scowls. "I know that sounds like an excuse. But it's not her. Not on purpose. Strange things just . . . happen around her." Like right now, Derek's noticed that _all_ the crayons have fallen out of their bin and rolled all over the table. But not a single one has rolled _off_ the table, and her two favorite colors, purple and green, have stopped right next to her hand.

Mr. Stilinski closes his mouth and pinches his lips together. "That sounds like magic starting to manifest," he says quietly. "I'll keep an eye on it." Derek blinks. Despite suspecting—and dreading—that his kid's going to end up like her mother, he hasn't considered that the weird shit that happens to her might be the result of magic rather than extreme bad luck or childish clumsiness. "And I don't want you to worry." Mr. Stilinski pushes up his left sleeve. A tattoo coils at his wrist, a green and gold Druid five-fold knot. Derek swallows. He remembers the symbol all too well from life with—and after—Jen. "I have a little magic," Mr. Stilinski says. Derek isn't sure whether he should feel relieved that he isn't dealing with a full-powered Druid or terrified that he's entrusting his child to a dabbler. "I can handle anything Dewey might throw at me."

How is this guy real? Exposure to werewolves, enough magic to handle any crisis his kid might trigger—plus he's gorgeous and smells amazing. Derek predicts trouble.

Mr. Stilinski smiles brightly. "Well, okay then! I think that's everything. Unless you have questions. Like, non-supernatural questions. I love answering parent questions about my classroom. I am an open book about my classroom. Want to talk about the books we'll be reading next week? Or I could show you my writing lesson plans."

Derek's stare intensifies. Why is Mr. Stilinski babbling all of a sudden? It seems like, now that he's sold Derek on his fitness as a teacher, he should be _less_ nervous, not _more_. Derek sure feels more at ease now. He tries a smile, but Mr. Stilinski doesn't seem reassured. "I'm sure it's fine," Derek says. "You obviously know what you're doing, and I'll hear all about what you're doing in class from Dewey."

Mr. Stilinski nods like a broken bobble-head doll. "Sure, sure," he says. "That's one of the great things about this age. They still want to talk to you."

The comment takes Derek aback. Does Mr. Stilinski have children? He seems young, but Derek knows better than to make assumptions; Erica had her first kid at 17. Derek realizes this is too personal a question to ask after only knowing the guy for fifteen minutes, so he says, "Thank you for taking the time to meet us. It's useful to let Dewey acclimate to the classroom before school starts and she has to deal with other kids every day."

Mr. Stilinski nods. "I love meeting parents," he says. "And it's nice to meet kids one-on-one before the big, hyper mass descends." He winks. "Oh, hey! Have you started at the hospital yet?"

Derek swallows a frustrated sigh. He knew that coming back to Beacon Hills meant reinserting himself in the small-town gossip machine. But he hasn't re-accustomed himself to absolutely everyone knowing absolutely everything about his business. "My first shift's tomorrow."

"Great." Mr. Stilinski turns the picture back around and taps the woman in it. "My stepmom, Melissa Delgado. She's the head nurse in the emergency department. Stop by and introduce yourself if you get a chance."

"I might," Derek says, having absolutely zero intention of doing so.

Mr. Stilinski seems aware of this, because he says insistently, "Melissa's a gift to the world. Calm in any crisis and good to talk to if you're feeling lonely." He gives Derek a knowing look. "Nice to have a friend or two outside your pack, right?"

Derek clenches his teeth. In fifty years, this guy will be a world-class busybody. "Sure," he grits out. "Maybe."

"Awesome." All smiles again, Mr. Stilinski extends his hand. Derek reaches out to shake, and when their fingers brush, a jolt of electricity races up his arm. He looks quickly at Mr. Stilinski and sees the shock he feels reflected in the other man's eyes. They let go of each other's hands as though scalded, and Mr. Stilinski takes a rapid step backward. He trips over his own feet and sprawls over one of the tiny desks that circle the room. Derek reaches out without thinking and grabs his elbow, holding him upright, although he has to let go quickly as the electric jolting sets up again. "Umm . . ." Mr. Stilinski says.

"Yeah," Derek says, nodding. "Yeah. I think we'll, uh . . . Laura. We'll go see Laura now."

"Sure, yeah, great!" Mr. Stilinski gushes, too enthusiastically. He's nodding like he's physically incapable of stopping, and his hands with their long, wicked fingers flutter around his face like deranged birds. Then he visibly recollects himself. He draws in one deep breath, and stillness passes over him like a wave. When he makes eye contact again, he looks like a functional twenty-something rather than a love-struck teen, which means he's doing about fifty times better than Derek, who feels the planet teetering around him. "It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Hale."

Derek smiles weakly and nods. "You, too, Mr. Stilinski. Come on, Dewey, let's go see Aunt Laura."

Dewey squeals with delight. She haphazardly tosses the crayons into their box, slams the lid, and gallops across the classroom, her drawing clenched in one hand. "Okay Mr. Stilinski bye!" she yells.

"Stop," Derek says, grabbing her shoulder. "Inside of buildings, we walk." Dewey makes a displeased grumble in the back of her throat, but she lets Derek lead her out of the classroom at a more sedate pace. Derek looks back as Mr. Stilinski reaches out to close the door. Their eyes meet, and for an instant something in those gold eyes looks _so_ familiar, a flash of fairly recent memory that Derek feels he ought to recognize. The moment passes, and they're just eyes again. They're still devastating, though. Derek will have to be _very_ careful if he doesn't want to spend the next nine months pining after his kid's teacher.

* * *

Dewey is subdued as they walk back to the main office. Derek can't tell if she's processing the sensory input from Mr. Stilinski's classroom or stuck between art-brain and world-brain. But when he asks, she says she's okay, and he doesn't hear a lie, so he lets it go.

She picks up steam when she sees the word "Hale" on the name plaque on Laura's office door. "Aunt Laura!" she squeals, slipping from Derek's grip and rushing toward the office.

"Dewey!" Derek calls after her, but she's already shoving the door open and pushing inside.

"Aunt Laura!" she hollers again.

"Dewey, shhh!" Laura's voice holds a touch of alpha power, and Derek imagines red eyes are involved, however briefly. He enters the office in time to see his sister lower a finger from her lips and point under her desk.

"Ohhh!" Dewey stage whispers, and Derek bites back a laugh. "Andrew?" Laura nods, and Dewey steps with exaggerated care around the desk to where Laura's elder son is, Derek presumes, sleeping on the floor.

He drops into Laura's visitor chair and raises an eyebrow. "Car?" he asks. If that's the case, he understands Andrew's need for sleep. Boyd and Erica's nine-year-old daughter is a whirlwind, and spending time with her leaves Derek feeling like he could use a nap, too.

Laura nods as she lifts Dewey into her lap, but Derek can tell she's laughing at him, too. "You know you're the only person who calls her, right?" she asks. "Even her bio dad doesn't call her that, and he's the king of terrible nicknames."

Derek shrugs, unconcerned. "It's her initials."

"It's not, though, and hasn't been for years. You should be calling her 'Carb.'"

Derek grimaces. "That'd be dumb." Laura snorts a quiet laugh. "Anyway, I think it's funny, which is all that matters to me." He grins at her. She grins back—and sticks out her tongue. He sticks his out back. Such mature, professional adults they've turned into. "Where is she now?"

Laura waves her hand into the school in general. "Jordan took her and Owen somewhere. Track, maybe? God knows that girl has at least a half marathon's worth of energy to burn off." Derek laughs in agreement.

"So . . ." Derek leans back in his chair and tries to look nonchalant. The sharp cant of Laura's eyebrows tells him he's failed. "Tell me about Mr. Stilinski."

"Oh my God, yes!" Laura leans forward and places her hands flat on her desk. "I'm so glad we got Dewey into his class. Having supernatural-aware teachers in the early grades has been a lifesaver for us. Plus, he's a really good teacher."

"Okay," Derek says, "but what's he like as a person?"

Laura drums her fingers on the arm of her chair. "Kids love him. Parents sometimes find him to be . . . a bit much. Which is part of what makes him great for first-graders. He's more extroverted then you're usually comfortable with, but I don't foresee clashes between you."

"And he's really Alpha McCall's stepbrother?"

Laura's eyes narrow. "Derek, are you okay? We've talked about this."

"No, we haven't," Derek insists. "He talked like you guys are all best friends, but nobody's mentioned him to me."

"Derek!" Laura huffs in bemused frustration.

"Laura!" he huffs back. "His name is _Włodzimiers_. I would've remembered that."

Laura stares at him. Then she smacks her forehead with her palm and laughs so hard Dewey shushes her, pointing beneath the desk. "Oh, shoot, yeah," Laura says, "It didn't occur to me you might not remember. Stiles. No one can pronounce his real name, so he goes by Stiles."

Derek doesn't sulk at that. Except, okay, he sulks. Because he did _fine_ with the pronunciation. Then again, not everyone has degrees in history and linguistics, fluency in eight languages and passable proficiency in ten more, and a job as an interpreter. "Stiles," he says, trying it out. It fits. It also seems familiar, the same way Mr. Stilinski's— _Stiles'_ —eyes did, and not just because now he's remembering a half-dozen stories his packmates have told him about a hyperactive human in Beacon Hills' other pack. But as with the eyes, the feeling is gone before he can put a name to it. "Um . . . " Derek coughs and looks at his hands in his lap. He feels the blush creeping up the back of his neck and knows he doesn't stand much of a chance of keeping it off his face. "Is Stiles . . . single?" He drops his face into his hands the instant he says it, letting mortification wash over him.

Laura pops up in her chair so fast she almost dumps Dewey onto the floor. "Derek! Do you have a _crush_?"

"Well, no," he shoots back, scowling, "because I'm not _twelve_. I have . . . an attraction." He looks helplessly at his sister. "He smells really fu—he smells _really good_ , Laura."

Laura slumps and rubs her lips with her fingertips. "How good?" she asks. "Marco good or Sean good?"

Derek meets her probing gaze full-on. "Paige good."

Laura flattens her hand over her mouth. "Derek," she breathes.

Derek clenches his eyes shut. "I know," he says.

"This is—he's Dewey's teacher. You _can't_ —not to mention—"

"I know," he says again, though he doesn't, not entirely. He doesn't know what other thing Laura is going to say, what other reason she wants to give why he shouldn't pursue this. And he doesn't want to know. He tilts his head toward the ceiling and opens his eyes, then blinks rapidly against the sudden fluorescence. "But if he's straight, or with someone, it's moot, right?"

"Right," Laura agrees, "only he's single and bi."

"Crap," Derek mutters and barely registers Dewey scolding him for his naughty word.

Dewey. There's the crux of it. Stiles is Dewey's teacher. Until they reach the end of the first week in June, when Stiles is no longer Dewey's teacher, any relationship between them will be an ethical and professional quagmire that could ruin all three of them. He should wait. He _can_ wait. For a match as strong as he suspects Stiles will be, ten months is a more than bearable delay. But he gives his inner two-year-old free rein long enough to admit that he _doesn't wanna_. He doesn't want to wait to find out if Stiles blushes all the way down his chest, or what noises he makes when he comes, or how much muscle he's hiding under those sleeves.

"Derek, hey," Laura says, so gently it snaps something fragile inside Derek. "Are you okay?"

Derek lowers his gaze to hers, and he can't help the burst of startled laughter that breaks free when he sees her worried expression exactly mirrored on Dewey's face. "I will be," he assures them. "In June."

A sly smile crosses Laura's face. "Yeah," she says, "you guys could have fun for a while. In June."

Derek opens his mouth to say that anything that happened between him and Stiles would be a hell of a lot more than "fun" and would last far beyond June, but he never gets the chance, because at that moment, every awake head in the room turns toward the outer office. Dewey gives a full-throated war cry of, "Cousins!" and slides gracelessly off Laura's lap in her charge toward the door.

Owen rushes inside first and dodges both his father and Derek in his eagerness to dive behind the desk and jump on his brother. Derek hears growls and tussles, but he doesn't see smoke, and Laura makes no move to separate her boys, so he assumes no one is getting irreparably hurt or set on fire. By the door, Dewey has attached herself, limpet-like, to Car. Age-wise, Dewey is closest to Boyd and Erica's daughter Vivi, but she's always had the strongest bond with Car. They're bombarding each other with a relentless barrage of conversation that no adult, even a supernatural one, can hope to follow.

A warm hand clasps Derek's shoulder; he tilts his head to smile up at his brother-in-law. Jordan's in khakis and a black t-shirt under his Beacon County Sheriff's Department windbreaker. He looks like a fucking grown-up. What happened to the pink-haired punk phoenix who'd blanketed Bed-Stuy with yarn bombings and guerrilla gardens and set abandoned cars on fire to watch something burn that wouldn't heal? How is he a deputy sheriff, and Laura an elementary school vice principal, and Derek a hospital interpreter? Where did they go wrong? "Deputy Hale," Derek says.

"Hey, little brother," Jordan says, like always. Derek grimaces, like always. Smug bastard is still milking the 53 weeks between them for all they're worth. "Didn't know you'd be here today."

"Dewey needed to find her room and meet her teacher."

Jordan laughs and goes around Laura's desk, kissing her before digging around underneath the desk to separate his squabbling sons. "Mr. Stilinski," he says as he emerges with one kid under each arm. "He's a complete basket case, but nobody's better with our special snowflakes."

"Oh, Dewey," Car says, voice bright, "you get my dad this year? You'll love his class; it's the best!"

Derek whirls so fast he strains something in his back. He stares at Car and she looks up, sensing his gaze on her. "You okay, Derek?" she asks. He blinks, seeing her as if for the first time ever. Claudia Alicia Reyes-Boyd, with her honey-blond curls and enormous amber eyes. Eyes that watch him with considerable concern—eyes he's just seen in the face of a teacher he's already a little stupid over. Alpha McCall's stepbrother. And apparently Car's biological father.

Everything is awful.


	2. Doused in Glitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Kosheen's "[Suzy May](www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9W_NakQIU4)."
> 
>  **Trigger warning** in this chapter for mild, but still hella annoying, misgendering of a genderfluid character.
> 
> Extra-special thanks to [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi) who, in addition to her usual excellent beta work, patiently listened to me whine about the unwieldiness of Dewey's nonbinary pronouns and then said, "It's not too late to change them." Thanks for helping me keep my head on straight.

**_September 20-21, 2021_ **

"So I said, 'And she's a were, right?' And _he_ said—"

"'Aware of what?'" Everyone in the car recites the end of Stiles' new favorite anecdote. But while Stiles bursts immediately into laughter, the car's other occupants look like they're plotting the best place to dump Stiles' body. Lydia looks like she thinks doing her banshee scream in his ear at 3:42 every morning for the rest of his life would too good a fate for him.

"You guys aren't laughing! Why aren't you laughing? This is the funniest story _ever_!"

"It was the first time you told it," Scott says. Stiles recognizes his expression as "you were my brother before you were my brother, so I love you, but you're an idiot." "Now it's a story we've heard too many times."

"It's okay, Stiles," Kira says. Her tone is kinder than Scott's, but a tense layer beneath the surface reminds Stiles why aggravating a pregnant kitsune is a bad decision. "We get that you want to climb Derek like a prince up Rapunzel's tower. But you've been talking about him and his kid for almost three weeks solid, and it seems unfair that we're going to be sick of them before we meet them."

Stiles can't let this slander against Derek's character stand. "This isn't lust, okay? This isn't wanting to climb him like a tower—great allusion, by the way. It's—you guys didn't see it, okay? The way he is with his kid. I mean, he got so protective over the gender issue. He was ready to yank Dewey out of my class if I couldn't handle her being genderfluid. How fucking amazing is that? And, yeah, he looks like he was carved by Bernini—"

"Bernie who?" Scott asks, forehead scrunched.

Stiles ignores him. "But he's . . . a great parent, okay? And he smells _amazing_."

This gets him the sudden and complete attention of every person in the car. "What do you mean?" Kira asks carefully.

Stiles waves his hand. "I mean amazing. His scent is the embodiment—emromament?—of everything good and happy in this world, and I want to build a fucking nest in it." A slow horror steals over Stiles as he watches the looks on his friends' faces. "Pole-axed" seems like the best description.

"You mean—" Scott licks his lips and tries again, which petrifies Stiles, who's used to Scott the straight-shooter who can't lie or evade to save either of their miscreant butts. "Like cologne, right?"

"Pssh." Stiles smacks Scott's arm lightly, mindful that he's driving the packmobile. "Okay, first off, I've never heard of a were, especially a born one, using artificially scented, like, anything. Two, do you know of any cologne that smells like an orange grove on Christmas morning, 'cause I don't." The others blink at him, and it strikes him that that might sound weird. "I mean, not that I've been in an orange grove on Christmas morning, but it seems like something that would smell nice, right? I'd like to think I'd like how it smelled, if I were. There. Then. Would you stop staring at me?"

Allison looks at Lydia, who shrugs, and then at Stiles, who glares aggressively. "Stiles," Allison says slowly, "you shouldn't be able to smell Derek that clearly. You—you're human. You shouldn't. I'm not the expert, but I've listened to Cora talk about it enough times—"

"No," Stiles says. "No way, no how, nope. We are not listening to you wax romantic about your girlfriend's werewolf sex research again."

"It's not—" Allison starts to protest, but Cora's dissertation is the only thing their friends want to hear about less than Derek's perfection, and Lydia shuts her down mercilessly.

"What are you guys saying here?" Stiles asks. "That Derek doesn't smell good? Because he does. He really totally does."

"We're saying you shouldn't know that," Lydia says. "Much as I hate to encourage Miss 'My Girlfriend's Research' over here—" Allison's glare isn't even half-hearted. It's, like, maybe quarter-hearted. "—her point stands. The myth of werewolf mates may be based on the theory that werewolves can smell immunological compatibility. We're talking about things that happen on a cellular level. You shouldn't be able to smell it."

"Yeah, you keep saying that." Stiles is ready to start pulling his hair out. Scott's pack prides itself on open and honest communication, but he feels like the others are keeping way more from him than they're telling him. "But what's it _mean_?"

"Cora's research kills the idea of 'true mates,'" Kira says, "but you and Derek might be about as close as it gets."

And that? Is a lot of pressure to put on Stiles and a guy he met for fifteen minutes.

* * *

Stiles is the last one into the Hale house, and he's barely across the threshold when someone shoves a baby into his arms. "Thank god you're here," Erica says fervently before clicking away on four-inch heels that make _Stiles'_ feet hurt. "Your child is impossible."

Stiles looks Cory over and then smooshes their faces together to highlight the melanin difference. "Uh . . . this one doesn't belong to me."

"Close enough," Erica calls from the kitchen.

Cory already has the string of Stiles' hoodie in his mouth. Honestly, Stiles isn't sure why he wears it around these kids. For years they'd all been convinced that Claud inherited her oral fixation from Stiles. After all, there's hardly anything he won't gleefully put in his mouth—which his past sexual partners have appreciated. But when first Vivi and then Cory sprang from Erica's womb convinced the world was theirs to chew on, Erica admitted that she'd been the same when she was a kid, before her mother trained it out of her. It's a well-known fact in both packs that you never bring anything into the Hale house that shouldn't be drooled or gnawed on.

Stiles looks for backup and discovers his pack's abandoned him, probably for whatever's producing those delicious smells in the kitchen. Mulled cider, maybe. Instead, he finds himself face-to-face with Derek. And Derek's scent, that all's-right-with-the-world aroma he's been dreaming of for the past three weeks. Oh, joy. Alone with a one-year-old drool machine and an unfairly attractive man who is possibly Stiles' perfect match. Awkward flailing will commence in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

"Does that happen a lot?"

Stiles jumps. He'd been staring right at Derek, saw his lips move and everything, but being addressed by him still startles Stiles so hard he almost drops the baby. "Uh. What?" _Good, excellent. Way to convince Derek you're qualified to mold his kid's young mind._

"People shoving babies at you. Happen often?"

Stiles shakes his head and grins ruefully. "Not 'people;' Boyd and Erica. Never underestimate the power of my guilt over knocking Erica up when we were 17. They will _never_ pay for babysitting."

Derek's chuckle—a thin, nervous sound that isn't what Stiles expected—gets buried under the pounding of feet. Stiles beams as Claud skids to a stop in front of him. Her refusal to walk when she can run is definitely a Stilinski trait. "Okay, this one looks like mine."

She does, too; with every year that passes—every week that passes, sometimes—Claud seems a more perfect blend of Stiles and Erica, physically. She has Erica's riot of curls, cut to below her chin, but in a color exactly halfway between her parents'. She has Erica's skin tone and mouth, Stiles' nose and eyes. Her limbs and torso are going through an awkward phase, everything growing at a different rate and nothing looking like it goes together, but once she survives the nightmare of puberty she'll be a statuesque beauty, tall like him and curvy like Erica. And given that her personality is developing at the midpoint of his inquisitiveness, Erica's fierceness, and Boyd's refusal to take anyone's shit, there's nothing about this kid that Stiles doesn't adore.

"Tatuś," Claud says imperiously.

"Sprog," he returns. Off to the side, Derek snorts.

"Jordan made hot cider, and if you don't come _right now_ , Uncle Scott will drink it _all_."

"Yes," Stiles says with a world-weary sigh, "he will. His fault, dear Claudia, lies not in his stars, but in his stomach. Lay on, MacWolf."

"Ugh," she says, turning to stomp back to the kitchen, "I'm not a wolf, and you aren't funny."

"But you're the child of a wolf, and I'm uproarious," Stiles insists. He reaches out and touches her shoulder. "Hey. Claud." He watches the internal battle play out on her face. She's at that awkward age where she wants so badly to be her own person but is still desperate for her parents' approval. "You okay?"

Rebellion wins for the moment, and Claud crosses her arms. "Yeah, duh, of course I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine, who says I'm not fine?"

Stiles aches for her. He misses the days when she was small, and her hurts were small, and a hug from any of her parents or grandparents could fix any ill. Who told her she could grow up so damned fast, and why didn't they tell Stiles she was going to do it? "Are you and your mom getting along okay?" He doesn't bother asking about Boyd. Claud could suffer a psychotic break and kill everyone she's ever met, and Boyd alone would be left standing, still her favorite person in the world.

Claud's expression darkens, and Stiles sees a flash of hurt confusion. "Mama doesn't get me," she grumbles.

Stiles runs his hand over her hair. "Oh, precious Druidling," he says, which has the desired effect of transferring Claud's ire off Erica and onto him for a minute, "you know she'll listen, right? Whatever she doesn't get about you, she wants to listen to you explain it to her."

"Whatever," Claud says. Her tone wavers; she can't seem to decide if she'll accept the olive branch Stiles is extending on Erica's behalf or knock it away. "There's a baby eating your face."

It's true. At some point, Cory gave up on the sweatshirt string and started gumming Stiles' cheek. "Well, I'm awfully pale. Maybe he thinks I'm a marshmallow." Derek laughs again, a different laugh, low and rich like warm, melted sex. It's unfair. Stiles deflects by glaring at him. "Where's _your_ kid?"

Derek gives an unconcerned shrug. "In the back yard with Vivi and the boys, last I saw. Lots of energy to burn on a full moon night."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Don't I know it. You aren't worried about spontaneous combustion?" Being the child of a werewolf and a phoenix sounds like the coolest thing ever until the first time you accidentally set something on fire with your mind when your emotions get out of control. On the upside, being impervious to fire means they're also lacking that pesky vulnerability to electricity that plagues the werewolves in their circle.

Derek shrugs. "Ze heals."

Stiles waves Cory's arm at Derek in floppy salute. "I admire your paternal sangfroid, sir."

Derek's response is a different smile from what Stiles has seen before. This one is small and shy, almost embarrassed. Stiles wants to lick it. He's not sure how he earned it, but he wants to see it every day for the rest of his—week. Definitely the rest of his week.

"CIDER!" Claud bellows, and Christ, but the girl's got pipes. As he follows her toward the kitchen, Stiles is aware of Derek behind him, warm and amused, and feels like he could turn into a puddle of happiness and anticipation. He loves this part of a relationship, when everything is possible and nothing about you grates on them yet. He hides a grin in Cory's thick hair and sweeps into the kitchen.

"Did I make it?" he asks.

" _Barely_ ," Claud huffs. Nine years old, and her huffs are already museum-worthy. Stiles is _not_ looking forward to the teen years. He catches the tail end of the look Boyd and Erica exchange and realizes they must dread Claud's impending pubescence more than he does. After all, they'll have to live with her while it's happening.

Jordan wisely ignores the interpersonal subtext and hands Stiles a mug of cider. Laura pushes a bowl of candy corn across the counter to him in silent commiseration. Stiles nods his thanks and leans against the counter, sipping his cider and basking in the communal feel of the place. The Hale house kitchen is enormous. In the small hours of the morning, when he's the first or last one up, it feels cavernous and empty. But full of people and life, it's exactly what's needed to hold all this love.

"Official business!" Laura exclaims, beaming around the circle. "Introductions." She wraps her hand around Derek's forearm. "Everyone, this is my baby brother Derek. I finally convinced him and his adorable daughter Dewey to move back to Beacon Hills from New York to make the Hale pack complete."

Stiles blinks at Laura's unconcerned use of "daughter"—and at Derek's lack of reaction. Well, she _is_ his alpha, and his big sister; speaking against her must be hard. Still, having seen how committed Derek is to Dewey's freedom of gender expression, Stiles boggles at how easily he lets Laura box the kid in. The bit about Derek making the pack complete feels weird, too. A pack is a dynamic entity. Sometimes it'll be stable for a while, but it ebbs and flows. It's never "complete."

Stiles yanks his attention back to the present as Laura continues, "Derek, this is the McCall pack. Alpha Scott McCall, his wife Kira Yukimura, and . . ."

Kira gives a sparkling laugh and pats the bump of her stomach. "And passenger," she says.

Derek smiles. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, man," Scott says sincerely. "Your pack's making us a first-time supernatural parents' manual. Please, add any advice you have."

"I will," Derek promises, and Stiles sees the wheels turning in his mind, searching out relevant information. It's charming and generous, and Stiles hates his life a little, that he's not yet the guy who can lean over and kiss Derek when he does endearing stuff like that.

"You know Allison—" Here Laura throws her brother a hard look. Stiles wonders how the Hale family handled the big "I know Kate Argent killed our family, but Allison isn't her aunt, and Cora's happy, so be civil" talk. "And that's her roommate, Lydia Martin."

Normally, when Lydia meets a fellow supernatural, she makes a caustic remark about banshee power over death and how unwise it would be to piss her off. Now, she smiles sadly at Derek and squeezes his hands, saying, "It's good to meet you, Derek. I hope you'll be able to heal here." Stiles swallows and buries his face in Cory's baby softness. He knows Derek's personal story holds tragedy beyond the general Hale saga, but now he has to wonder how much damage they're dealing with. Especially because Derek reacts to Lydia's touch as though she'd poured burning acid over him, jerking away and tucking his hands protectively under his arms.

"And I know you know Claud's bio dad, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles feels chilled and small. Derek nods and mumbles acknowledgment, but Stiles is fluent in body language, and Derek shuts down completely at Laura's words. He turns subtly away from Stiles, the easy rapport they had in the foyer vanishing as if it never existed. Stiles has no idea how it died, but he's determined to bring it back.

Stiles comes back to reality as Laura adds, "Next month you'll meet Danny, who currently sucks for whisking Isaac off to Hawaii without us."

"Hawaii," Allison scoffs. "Tropical beaches and crystal clear waters. Who needs it?"

" _Me_ ," Erica says emphatically.

"I'd love a trip _half_ that nice for our fifth," Kira says, beaming at Scott, whose eyes widen in panic.

"The traditional gift for the fifth anniversary is wood," Lydia says, and, _really_? It's like she doesn't know her packmates _at all_.

"I'm sure they're getting plenty of—" Laura slaps her hand over Stiles' mouth. He grins and waggles his eyebrows at her.

"It's not _that_ nice," Boyd grumbles. "They're staying in Danny's grandmother's attic."

"I've seen that attic," Lydia says. "It's a great trip."

They finish off Jordan's cider and head toward the back yard, where Andrew, Vivi, Owen, and Dewey careen around like drunken pinballs, their yells and shrieks interspersed with the rapturous yips of Cora's Tamaskan, Remus. It's twenty minutes to moonrise, and none of the kids are fanged, winged, or on fire. That's damned good control.

As Stiles and Scott step onto the back deck, Laura beckons them aside. "How well do you know the Adams pack?" she asks quietly.

Scott shakes his head. "Not well. I mean, we did the standard new pack meet and greet when I became an alpha, but it wasn't a big deal."

"Not a big—" Stiles waves his hands around. "Were we at the same meeting?"

"Yeah, I know," Scott sighs. "You thought their alpha was—"

"A power-mad shitcake?"

Laura snorts. Scott frowns and continues, "And didn't you call his betas—"

"Eight-tentacled creepsters? Why, yes. Yes, I did."

Laura's openly laughing now. Scott looks deeply pained. "But they didn't seem that bad to me," he says. "I think Lydia dated one of them for a while; she might know more."

"Thanks," Laura says, shaking her head, "but that's not—" She looks uncharacteristically anxious.

"What's going on?" Scott asks.

Her lips pinch together briefly before she says, "Deaton's hearing weird things. Rumors, mind; very hush-hush. But a member of the local Druid grove's been missing for three months, and people are saying she might've been the Adams emissary."

Stiles feels chilled to the bone. Everything looks fuzzy. Emissaries are sacred. You do not mess with emissaries. Werewolf packs can wipe each other off the map until kingdom come, but emissaries stand apart. Inviolable. If someone's done something to the Adams pack's emissary—if Adams himself, the sick fucker, has done something to his own emissary—Stiles shudders. "I'll look into it," he promises.

"Thank you." Laura squeezes his arm and goes to join the others.

Scott scrutinizes him. "You okay, man?"

Stiles nods, grateful for all the quiet ways Scott understands him. "Yeah. Let's go."

Everyone stands around making small talk for fifteen minutes. Derek attempts a brief, stilted conversation with Stiles, but they fall quickly into an uncomfortable silence, and when Cora says Derek's name, he practically runs to where she's talking with Allison and Lydia, leaving Stiles stranded.

"Dude, what the hell?" Scott mutters, resting his chin on Stiles' shoulder.

"I don't know, man," Stiles admits. His eyes widen when Derek looks over at the sound of his voice. Derek looks flustered and turns his back to Stiles. "I sincerely have no idea."

At five minutes to moonrise, Laura calls the kids up to the house, and everyone who's going on the run gets ready. In most cases, that involves stripping. Stiles is sensitive enough not to ogle but asshole enough to enjoy the glimpses he happens to catch.

Derek damned near gives him emotional whiplash when he appears on the porch, butt-ass naked, expression soft with concern. "You're not coming?" he asks.

Stiles' gaze drops without his say-so, as much to avoid the inexplicable concern in Derek's voice as to check out his body, but he must make a sound—possibly a whimper or something else undignified—at the sight of chiseled abs, soft-looking chest hair, and a _very_ nice cock, because Derek blushes, becoming a wall of pink from his forehead to his clavicles. It's adorable, and it makes Derek unfairly hotter, and Stiles wishes to god he had any idea how to play this.

"No, it's—you know, I thought Laura would've explained this to you." Stiles shakes his head to dismiss the thought. "Lyds, Allie, and I stay at the house with Cory and a big pitcher of piña coladas, and you guys do your supernatural thing. Then, as the other kids poop out during the night, you bring them to us and go back to snuffling in the undergrowth or whatever you do out there."

"Which reminds me," Boyd calls, "I better not come home in the morning and find my kids covered in glitter." Stiles returns a "Who, me?" look that fools exactly no one.

Derek gives Stiles what's probably supposed to be a little glare, but which his eyebrows turn into a big glare. "I've never snuffled anything. In human or wolf form."

Stiles shrugs. "Your loss, dude. If I were a supernatural being with a super-keen sense of smell, I'd snuffle shit all the time." Stiles freezes. Talking about scent brings the car conversation to the front of his mind, and he's suddenly fighting a powerful urge to ask what he smells like to Derek. He swallows and looks away so he doesn't see Derek's reaction to the wave of embarrassment, confusion, and lust Stiles is probably throwing out.

But Derek either misses the scent or chooses to have mercy. "Haven't you been on a run with the pack?"

Stiles scoffs and gestures at his lanky body. "Dude, seriously? Does this look like a body that can keep up with a pack of werewolves? No, the humanish contingent stays with the kiddies, and you guys give in to the pull of the moon or whatever, and everyone's happy." Derek keeps staring at him, so he sighs and relents. "Okay, yeah, I did a couple runs right after Scott and Laura buddied up. But I've always assumed you do something different when there are no humans around to hold yourselves back for, you know?"

Derek's face doesn't so much as twitch as he says, "That's true. We save the orgies for when it's just us."

Stiles stares. He's seeing so many new sides to Derek tonight, and he wants to get his hands on all of them. Immediately and repeatedly. "Nobody told me wolf got jokes," he says accusingly.

Derek grins. Then he narrows his eyes at the group in the yard. "What about Car?" he asks. "She doesn't shift. Will she be all right?"

Stiles blinks at him. Then he laughs. "Right! You're the one who renamed my daughter after a motor vehicle. Well done, you." Derek starts to protest, and Stiles waves him off. "Listen, I tried to call her that when she was born, but between Erica, Laura, and Melissa—hey, by the way, have you met her yet?—I seriously feared for my future reproductive possibilities, you know? And, I mean, now it ought to be 'Carb,' but that's dumb, right? Who calls a kid that?" It's likely that nothing he's saying is news to Derek, who, unsurprisingly, stares at him after this outburst. He has that effect on people. He waves his hand. "Don't worry about her, is my point. She may not shift, but she's got plenty of tricks up her sleeve." He grins. "We're bringing her up right."

Derek snorts, which, _rude_. He turns toward the yard beyond the back deck, where the supernaturals are gathering for the run. Before he starts down the stairs, he pauses and looks back at Stiles over one glorious tanned shoulder. "Thank you," he says softly, "for looking out for our kids."

Stiles feels his face flush tomato red, and he ducks his head. "Hey," he says, to his shoes as much as to Derek, "one of 'em's my kid, too."

Derek sighs wistfully. "Yeah," he says.

Stiles' gaze snaps up at the tone of regret, but Derek's bounded down the steps and joined the others. Stiles takes the opportunity to appreciate Derek's firm ass and toned legs before he shakes himself off and moves to the edge of the deck. Lydia and Allison step up beside him, Cory in Lydia's arms, all of them a reassuring presence at his back. Stiles raises his hand, and an expectant hush falls over the group. What started six years ago as a joke between Stiles and Jordan has developed into a beloved tradition of the full moon run.

Stiles listens in the stillness. Some nights he uses magic to amplify his voice, make things more dramatic, but tonight he prefers the quiet. "Ladies and gentlemen and in-betweens," he says, grinning at the excited way Dewey bounces at that, "creatures of moon and flame, show yourselves!"

In a flurry of feather, fang, and flame, Stiles' friends transform. They're a motley bunch: full wolves and half; full phoenix and fledglings; a kitsune; a banshee; kids who straddle all manner of lines in between; a hunter; and him.

The packs go bounding off, racing and howling. Stiles watches until Claud reaches the edge of the woods and turns back. She waves; Stiles waves back; Claud races after the others. The private ritual complete, Stiles follows Allison and Lydia into the house.

"So." Lydia settles Cory into the cushioned play . . . thing that Stiles still doesn't understand, though all the kids have used it, and turns to him, hands on hips and "serious shit going down" expression firmly in place.

Stiles plays dumb. He nods. "So."

Lydia is having none of it. She moves toward the kitchen at a take-no-prisoners speed. "This is what's going to happen. I am going to pour drinks, and you are going to update us on the situation between you and New DILF."

"Yeah, no, that's not gonna—why is he 'New DILF'?" Stiles asks as he and Allison follow Lydia into the kitchen.

Allison rolls her eyes. "So we don't confuse him with the old DILFs, obviously."

"Who were the old DILFs?"

Lydia ticks them off on her fingers. "Jordan, Boyd, Chris, and the sheriff."

"What? No!" Stiles recoils, horrified. "Eww, no!"

Lydia pauses with the refrigerator door half-closed, the piña colada pitcher dripping condensation on the floor. "They're incredibly attractive men, Stiles. You can't deny that."

"Can and do," he insists. "Because one is my dad, one _works for_ my dad, and another is _my kid's dad_. None of these things is sexy." He turns to Allison for backup. "Allie, tell her."

Allison bobs her head back and forth. "Well, since the only one you left on the list is _my_ dad, I'm not sure how much I can help you. But mostly, I agree with Lydia."

Lydia smiles victoriously. She slides giant piña coladas in front of Stiles and Allison and returns to the living room. As Stiles and Allison follow, she settles on the couch beside Cory and makes a series of faces at him that look far less absurd than they ought to. "My point is that you haven't stopped talking about Derek for _three weeks_ , and the scent thing is fascinating—don't smirk, Allison, it's unbecoming—and you two are doing some seriously obscene eyefucking. But the mood between you is see-sawing so fast I'm amazed no one's been shot into space. What's going on?"

"I don't know," Stiles groans. He flops on one side of Lydia, and Allison settles gracefully on the other. Stiles reaches out his free hand to tickle Cory under the chin. Cory giggles and bats the hand away, so Stiles wraps it around the stem of his glass and stares into his drink's slushy depths. "The attraction's, like, _really_ thick. Sometimes I swear I can _see_ it. But every time he remembers that I'm Claud's dad, or Dewey's teacher, he shuts down."

"He's got a point, emotionally stunted though his expression of it may be." Stiles turns on his puppy-dog eyes, but they've never worked on Lydia. "No, come on, you know I'm right. You shouldn't be boinking one of your students' parents."

"Yeah, I know," Stiles says with a frustrated huff, shoving his hand through his hair and grimacing when he remembers his hand is wet from his glass. "But what are we going to do, not speak to each other until June? Can't we content ourselves with knowing I won't _always_ be Dewey's teacher?"

"But you _will_ always be Scott's stepbrother," Allison says, "and Derek will always be Laura's brother."

"So _what_?" If an _actual_ baby hadn't been sitting right in front of him, he might've stomped his foot and crossed his arms.

" _So_ , Stiles," Lydia says with a "don't pretend to be stupid" scowl, "interpack romances are tricky, especially when all the parties are close to the alphas. It's hard for us to get it, because we fell into this world so late, but usually it's a diplomatic nightmare, and the Hales are way more aware of that." She laughs bemusedly. "Think of the mess we went through when Erica was pregnant with Claud."

"Yeah, but that was because there was a kid involved."

" _Two_ kids are involved now, so it's going to be at least twice as complicated." Lydia rests her hand on his. "I'm not telling you to give up. I think I'd punch you if you did. I'm saying . . . be patient. And be sure you know what you want, because this is going to be harder than your other relationships."

Stiles' brain flashes, without his say-so, on his other relationships. He tries not to imagine what could be harder than the werewolf who'd been dating someone else by the time she realized she was pregnant with his kid, the crazy stalker-guy who'd mainly gone out with him to get close to Allison, and the beautiful, sharp-witted woman he'd known practically since infancy, who'd been killed by a drunk driver on her way to their second date.

But Derek's worth the trouble. For Derek, he can deal with all sorts of mess. And that's a scary thought, because, well. See above, re: Stiles' relationship history.

Ultimately, Lydia settles in one corner of the couch with her feet tucked under her, Allison's legs draped over her lap. Stiles slides to the floor in front of them and sprawls on his stomach. They work their way through the piña coladas while Lydia holds forth on her research and the idiot grad students who work for her. Stiles and Allison understand enough about what she's working on to contribute thoughtful-sounding "hmm" and "ahh" noises at appropriate moments but not enough to add anything else. That's fine; when Lydia gets wound up she wants an audience, not a conversation. Stiles is content to make funny faces at Cory and let Lydia talk, and Allison pulls an archery magazine out of her bag and flips idly through it.

They haven't hit the two-hour mark when the door to the back deck slides open and Jordan comes inside, a yawning Dewey trailing behind him. What's weird is that Claud is with them, rubbing her eyes and producing a scenery-chewing fake yawn. Jordan hands Dewey off to Lydia and motions for Stiles to follow him to the kitchen. "Ears down," he tells Claud. She's not a werewolf, but she inherited a toned-down version of her mom's enhanced strength and senses and could eavesdrop on their conversation with little effort.

"Hey, Dewey," Stiles calls, and Dewey looks up sleepily from where ze's trying, hilariously, to make sense of the twisted-up blanket Lydia's dropped over zem. "Until I come back, focus on the smells in the room, okay?"

"Okay, Mr. Stilinski," Dewey says absently, but Stiles knows zir focus will be on the blanket for longer than this conversation is going to last. Lydia used to pull the twisted blanket trick on him and Scott in college when they were wasted. He remembers how long it can take.

Stiles leans his hip against the counter and raises his eyebrows at Jordan. "What's going on?"

Jordan shrugs and frowns, like he isn't sure how big a deal he should be making of this. "Dewey's done. Just about fell over where she stood."

"Ze," Stiles corrects. "Today."

Jordan blinks. "Oh? Laura said—"

"Yeah, don't—" Stiles rubs his face. "I hate to say this, because she's your alpha _and_ your wife, but don't listen to Laura on this one. Take your cues from Dewey and Derek, and respect whatever pronouns they tell you for any given day, okay?"

"Sure," Jordan says easily. "I had literal nest-building instincts when Laura was pregnant. I'm not going to dis anyone's gender expression." He drums his fingers on the countertop, gathering his thoughts. "Anyway, I was surprised Dewey lasted as long as ze did. This was zir first-ever full moon run with a pack."

Stiles stares, uncomprehending. He knows Derek and Dewey didn't have a pack in New York. Pack structure in big cities works differently than in areas like Beacon Hills, anyway, mostly loosely associated groups of family units coming together for full moons and the occasional potluck. Surely one of those groups would've taken an introverted omega and his adorable kid under its wing.

Even if they hadn't, there's a—"What about the full moon run in Central Park?" It's technically a secret, but there's no hiding a bunch of shifted werewolves charging around Central Park month after month. So they claim it's like the zombie pub crawl, which has led to the addition a number of night-running enthusiasts in bad werewolf masks and makeup. Some have come for years without suspecting they're running side-by-side with real weres.

Jordan sighs. "What happened to Jennifer—when she was alive, they were their own pack. And after—Derek was persona non grata in the New York werewolf community. Things there aren't like here." Stiles knows this; four centuries later, and folks on the East Coast _still_ hold grudges about Salem. "When Jennifer died, some weres were afraid it was going to start another war like in the '50s."

"That's bullshit," Stiles says hotly. "Derek acted in self-defense. I mean, Christ, even the NYPD got that, and that was without knowing the 'crazy, paranoid dark Druid who thought she needed to sacrifice her baby to keep it safe' aspect."

Jordan shakes his head. "You and I get that, but not everyone did. The Druid High Order didn't."

"Those bathrobe-wearing Aryan wannabes can suck my toe," Stiles grumbles.

Jordan raises his eyebrow. "Your toe?"

"Well I'm sure as fuck not letting their ugly fascist faces near my dick."

"How Claud's first word wasn't a profanity . . ." Jordan says, shaking his head.

"Entirely Boyd's influence, I swear."

Jordan chuckles. "Anyway, that was the situation in New York. It's a big part of why Derek moved Dewey back here. The other weres in zir kindergarten class weren't always kind. Derek found it . . . safer to keep zir separate from other shifters."

Sweet, jazz-dancing Jesus. What Stiles had been feeling for Derek before has _nothing_ on what he's feeling now—for Derek _and_ for Dewey. To be hated by your own kind for nothing more than defending your kid—which _any_ of them would've done—and to spend your life alone, instead of in the community that's vital to your well-being . . . yeah. Stiles would've moved, too. He wants to fill Dewey and Derek's lives with soft blankets and hot chocolate and unconditional love.

He yanks himself back to the present to find Jordan smirking at him. "Okay, right," Stiles says. "So, overstimulated werewolf kid on first full-pack run, check. What's my ill-gotten gain doing here?"

Jordan's smirk widens. "Well, that's the funny thing. As soon as Dewey started falling behind, Claud dropped back to stay with zem. And when Dewey started yawning and tripping over zir own feet, suddenly Claud was so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open, and, 'Oh, Papa, I _have to_ go back to the house with Jordan and Dewey.'" He laughs. "An Oscar-worthy performance."

Stiles smiles. "Claud's always had a soft spot for Dewey. Every time they visit, I don't hear about anything for weeks after except how awesome ze is."

"Aww," Jordan says with too much glee in his voice, "that's precious."

Stiles narrows his eyes and jabs a finger at Jordan's unfairly muscular chest. "Cut it the fuck out, Hale," he snaps. "Claud's nine, and Dewey's six. Playing matchmaker isn't cute. I think this is just . . . shared heritage. I don't know how much Dewey understands yet, but Claud's thrilled to have another half-werewolf, half-Druid in the pack."

Jordan nods. "Birds of a feather."

"Werewolves of a claw?" Stiles muses. "Druids of a spell?" He thinks of Dewey's mom and hopes the kid's magic isn't the same. "Okay," he tells Jordan, "get on back to the run. Your fireballs need you. Thanks for bringing in the weredruids."

"Sure thing. Thanks for watching them." He squeezes Stiles' shoulder. "'Night, man."

Stiles waves, but he's only half paying attention, considering his supplies. He's come prepared for kids on the verge of collapse, not ones with a ton of energy to burn. Maybe one of the more involved craft projects . . .

"By the way," Jordan calls as he steps onto the deck, "Vernon said to remind you of the no-glitter rule."

"He teaches second grade," Stiles scoffs. "'Endure glitter bombs' is in his job description."

Jordan gives him a wry look. "Which is why he wants it left out of his parenting description."

"Sure, whatever," he says, only vaguely aware when Jordan laughs and leaves the house to return to the run.

Stiles piles a plate full of cold fried chicken and cheese slices and takes it into the living room, setting it on the coffee table on front of Dewey and Claud. Dewey's well on the way to sleep, head resting against the side of Claud's thigh, feet dangling off the front of the couch. Claud's dropped her pretense of exhaustion and leans toward Lydia, talking quietly, one of Dewey's hands held in hers. Stiles perches on the arm of the couch next to Claud. She leans against his side, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders. Something within him settles like a quiet pond, and he lets out a contented sigh, letting the moment rest around him.

After a minute, Claud shifts against him. He squeezes her shoulder. "All right, Cloudy Day. Craft time."

"Papa says no glitter," Claud says automatically.

"What Papa doesn't know," Stiles starts, and Lydia smacks his leg. He _knows_ he shouldn't undermine Boyd's authority, but come on. _Glitter_.

The rest of the night progresses more according to what Stiles is used to. Two hours later, Cora brings Owen and Vivi to the house. Another hour after that, Andrew makes his own way inside, and Allison grills him for five minutes before she believes he told Scott he was coming in. Dewey's awake again. Construction paper crowns and cardboard broadswords are in process. They're reenacting the Iceni revolt, with Vivi as Boudicca and Dewey as Suetonius. Stiles plies everyone with protein and takes a perverse delight in how much glitter they're using. Dewey, in particular, is doused in half the tube. That . . . now that Stiles thinks about it, that might be a magical problem. He'd worry more if it didn't look so _cute_. If that's the worst zir magic's going to do, they should all count themselves lucky.

The kids charge around until they basically drop where they stand. Stiles and Lydia wrangle them into pajamas and herd them to bed. Allison goes to bed in one of the guest suites at one, and Stiles and Lydia crash in with her at two. Stiles thinks he hears the patio door open at four, but he can't wake himself up enough to confirm.

* * *

Stiles enjoys the easy rhythm of the morning after a full moon. He's taken the day off, and Allison and Lydia set their own hours, so Team Kind-of-Human wakes up slowly around ten. By eleven they've assembled a mountain of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon, which the older kids and the dog descend on like the ravening beasts they are. Lydia wraps and refrigerates the rest while Stiles writes jokey notes for the grown-ups. He hesitates before scribbling "Welcome home, Derek" and shoving the note into the middle of the pile before he can change his mind.

The bulk of the adults are up by noon. Allison and Lydia are staying here, so as soon as Scott and Kira stagger out of their guest room, choke down breakfast, and, in Scott's case, fill the world's most enormous travel mug with coffee (which Kira glares at mutinously), the McCall pack is ready to roll.

Stiles sends Claud to her room to grab her overnight bag; she thunders back downstairs as Derek descends at a more sedate pace, Dewey staggering along half-asleep at his side.

Stiles' heartbeat stutters, and Derek gives him a shy, wistful smile. This isn't _fair_. So far Stiles has seen Derek in business casual, pack night casual, and casually naked, but this is his new favorite look for the guy. He's wearing a faded gray thermal top, well-worn navy sweatpants, and a pair of the thick black socks Laura gave everyone last Christmas. His hair's mussed, bearded cheeks red with pillow creases, sea-glass eyes unfocused. And that scent again, as intoxicating as before but softer now, as though it, too, is still waking up.

"Hi," Derek says softly, and _Jesus_. If this were a rock concert, Stiles would be throwing his underwear at the stage.

"Morning." Stiles doesn't know why he whispers, except that talking to Derek when he's like this feels like stepping into the church. It calls for reverence. He looks at Dewey. "Hey, Dewey. What kind of day is it?"

"Girl day," she says around a yawn that seems too big for her mouth.

Stiles nods and looks back at Derek, who seems . . . closer than before. They sway toward each other. Kissing him would be the easiest thing in the world right now. Stiles itches to find out if his lips are as soft as they look and what his beard would feel like under Stiles' palms. Derek's mouth open slightly; his pupils widen. Stiles leans closer.

Reality asserts itself in the form of a bored nine-year-old. "Taaatuuuś!" Claud hollers from the front door, "let's gooooooo!"

Stiles sighs and bangs the heel of his hand lightly against his forehead. "Coming, my dulcet darling," he calls.

Derek snorts and steps out of Stiles' space. Stiles holds back a disappointed whine, but only because he knows Scott's listening. "She's going with you?" Derek asks.

Stiles nods. "Another full moon tradition. I watch the kids overnight, and in the morning I get to take whichever one I want. That one's pretty okay."

" _Tatu_ _ś_!" Claud protests.

Stiles grins. "I like to wait until Erica or Boyd are up, in case she's forgotten to mention any appointments, but today—" He glances at his watch and swears. "Yo, Scotty, let's roll!"

"Dude, we've been right here for, like, five minutes!" Scott calls from the foyer.

He grimaces. "Forced family lunch. Nana Ignacia's in town and wants to see her favorite great-granddaughter."

"I'm her only great-granddaughter," Claud points out.

" _For now_ ," he calls back. "Better enjoy it while you can." He turns back to Derek. "Listen, I have to run, but, uh . . . " He freezes, uncertain. With a normal guy, he would be angling for a date at this point. But Derek doesn't want to go there until Dewey's out of his class, and Stiles has to respect that.

Derek gives a small, apologetic smile that melts Stiles' everything. "We'll see each other around."

"Yes, that!" Stiles' nod gets out of his control very quickly. "That we will definitely do." _Oh God, kill me now._ "Um. Bye!" He turns and runs out of the kitchen, feeling like he's ten years old again, running away from Lydia after stealing a kiss from her. He rushes to the front door, grabs his satchel from its hook, and gives a smile that feels far less convincingly sane than he'd like. "Okay," he pants, "let's go."

To his dying day he will swear he's out of breath because he ran, not because proximity to Derek Hale diminishes his ability to function like a normal human being. Scott snorts but graciously says nothing as he leads them out of the house.

Stiles is pulling the door closed behind them as another door opens on the second story. "STILINSKI!" Boyd's voice thunders. " _Why_ are my children covered in glitter?!?"

Stiles makes his timely exit.


	3. Under the Quarter Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my wonderful beta, [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi), who, among other things, corrals my exuberant italics. Any mistakes you find surely result from my tendency to tinker until the last second. 
> 
> Mea maxima culpa if the Spanish is awful. It's cobbled together from Google Translate and what I can remember from high school Spanish. High school was a long time ago.
> 
> If you're not up on your Dutch cargo tricycles, Derek's Bakfiets [looks like this](http://bakfiets.nl/eng/).

_**October 10, 2021**_  

Derek turns the key on the bike lock and pushes up from his crouch. He licks his right thumb and rubs at a stubborn spot on his left palm, a mix of chain grease and graveyard dirt. He's tired, physically and emotionally. He wants to sit down and drink something warm.

The Quarter Moon Tea Shop beckons, soft lighting and comfortable chairs luring him forward. Not that he needs enticement.

A flash of motion catches Derek's eye, and he turns toward it. Then he freezes, there on the sidewalk between his bike and the door, staring at Stiles.

He's sitting at a table in the front window. Early-afternoon sunlight slants across his face; it gives his pale skin a shine like polished alabaster and his eyes a bright amber glow. Derek wants to kiss every spot that's lit while he presses his fingers against the shadowed areas. He wants to reel Stiles in by the edges of his bright red hoodie and rip off the absurd shark vs. werewolf t-shirt with his claws. He just _wants_.

Only—

Stiles isn't alone.

A man Stiles' age sits across from him. A golden-skinned, dark-haired, brilliantly smiling man who is not Scott. He's wearing a dark blue polo shirt with Quarter Moon's logo embroidered on it, and he's leaning forward, telling Stiles a story. Stiles leans forward, too, unconsciously, their poses bespeaking a long-time, casual intimacy.

Derek grits his teeth. Laura says Stiles is single, but this wouldn't be the first time she's misread the signals on a same-sex relationship. An urge, a strong one, is rising in him, to turn tail and run. But he spotted the tea shop on his way to drop Dewey off at the party and promised himself he'd come back when he was done at the cemetery; he's not going to deprive himself of tea because Stiles is spending time with some guy. Some bright-eyed, wide-smiled, gorgeous guy. He sighs, rolls his eyes at himself, and goes inside.

Stiles and the guy don't look up as he enters. It's a busy Sunday afternoon; the bell over the door has probably been ringing enough that they don't notice it anymore. The girl behind the counter, whose name tag introduces her as Georgie, offers him a smile as he orders a shortbread cookie and a pot of something called the "Savage Beast Blend," which intrigues him in a perverse way. He keeps half an ear on Stiles' table, but it's still the other guy telling a story about something that happened in a hotel, and Stiles giving strangled hoots of half-amused, half-horrified laughter.

"That's my favorite blend," Georgie tells him as she measures out the tea. "One of the boss's creations."

"Interesting name," he says.

"For his husband," she says. "It calms him down when he's upset or something."

As Derek hands over his credit card, the place fills with Stiles' loud, breathless, slightly shrill laughter. Derek looks over and sees Stiles throwing his whole body into the laugh, head thrown back, torso quaking, hands gripping the table's edge. Derek's heart clenches with regret that he's not the one making Stiles laugh like that, but he's curious. He desperately wants to meet this guy who can get that reaction out of Stiles.

And then, among the guffaws, Stiles gasps out, "Jesus Christ, Danny, you kiss Isaac with that mouth?"

The clenching around Derek's heart eases at once, and his curiosity cranks way up. Now he _has to_ meet Stiles' companion.

The first time Derek brought Jen to Beacon Hills, he took her to meet his family and Paige, and they'd run into this tall, skittish cemetery employee doing maintenance on a nearby grave. Jen noticed how scared the kid seemed of everything, and Derek saw the bruises, too faded for human eyes, ringing his wrists and shadowing his cheekbones.

Derek and Jen were back in New York by the time Isaac met with Laura. By all accounts, it ended badly. That happens sometimes, an alpha just doesn't click with a potential beta. But Laura agreed with Derek's assessment: if ever a human was a good candidate for the bite, it was Isaac Lahey.

As it happened, Scott, for reasons that are still unclear to Derek, had recently become California's first true alpha in over a century. As a brand new alpha with no betas, he was in danger of going feral, so Laura introduced him to Isaac. She swore she heard "bromance violins" at their first meeting, and no one was surprised when Isaac became Scott's beta at the next full moon.

Which leaves Derek and Isaac in a weird position relative to each other. Isaac's part of Scott's pack; technically, there's no connection between them. But Derek introduced Isaac to the supernatural, and he carries a lingering sense of obligation to make sure the guy's coping okay. Part of that, he tells himself, is making sure his husband's worthy of him.

Derek picks up his tray and makes his way to the small table. "Room for one more?" he asks.

Still chuckling, Stiles looks up, and the air whooshes out of Derek's lungs. God, there's that scent again, dizzying and thick. Then the swirl of emotions on top of it: fondness and amusement toward his companion, delight and no small measure of lust rolling in at the sight of Derek. Stiles half-stands and sweeps aside his mug and the messy pile of books at his elbow, making space for Derek. "Please, yes, please join us!" he says excitedly before sitting again. "Have you met Danny?"

Derek nods to Danny as he sits. "Not yet."

"Okay, well, Derek, this is Danny Mahealani. He's Isaac's husband, and he designed the hospital's awesome patient database. Danny, this is Alpha Hale's brother Derek. He's in Interpreter Services at the hospital, so he's familiar with your work. Also his kid Dewey is—don't let it get around—my favorite student this year." Derek smiles, pleased, and fusses with his tea to hide it.

"Great to meet you," Danny says easily, honestly. Now that Derek's not sulking, he sees the ring he missed before on Danny's left hand, white gold etched with the two bands he recognizes as the McCall pack symbol. "Isaac talks about you a lot. He thinks you and Dewey are both great."

"Thanks," Derek says to his teapot. "I think she's pretty great, too." Stiles raises a curious eyebrow at the pronoun, and Derek rolls his eyes. "Today is Rahil Hassan's prince-and-princess-themed birthday party. I expected Dewey to do both. But she put on a sparkly tiara and a tutu over her skirt and asked if there are pronouns that are 'more girl' than 'she' and 'her.'"

Stiles laughs, and Derek wants to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life. They grin at each other, and Derek notices Danny giving them a considering look. Derek clears his throat, embarrassed at being caught out. "It's a great database," he offers. "I love the section where we can add translations related to a patient's condition directly to their chart."

"He got that idea from me and Scott," Stiles says proudly. "When Nana Ignacia had her second heart attack, we got sick of every new nurse and doctor having to ask us or track down an interpreter to find out how to say 'stent' and 'aspirin' in Spanish."

"Oh," Derek says. "¿ _Habla Ud. Español?_ "

" _Sí_ ," Stiles says, laughing. " _Tenía que saber lo que la familia de Scott estaban diciendo acerca de mí_."

Derek smiles and turns back to Danny. "And you work at a tea shop on the side?"

Danny laughs and stretches. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of toned muscle beneath. Between the smile, the brains, and the abs, Derek has no trouble seeing how Isaac got hooked. "I own the place," Danny says. "Needed a getaway from computers."

"It's lovely," he says. He takes a sip of tea and can't stop a groan from leaving his lips. "Delicious."

Danny and Stiles lean forward, eerily similar scrutinizing expressions on their faces. "What are you drinking?" Stiles asks eagerly.

He looks between them. "Savage Beast," he says, thinking he's maybe going to regret it.

"Hah!" Stiles crows. "What did I tell you? 'Wolf nip."

"Stiles," Danny sighs.

Derek coughs. He'd forgotten the girl at the counter said it was the boss's blend for his husband. Which means that the name's . . . a little obvious. Then again, the shop's called "Quarter Moon." "What's in it?"

Danny gives a sly, dimpled smile. "Trade secret," he says

Stiles flops back in his seat. "He won't tell anyone, even though I've told him a hundred times he could make a fortune if we isolate the ingredient that makes you guys love it so much."

Danny rolls his eyes. "You're way overestimating the size of the werewolf market."

Stiles looks imploringly at Derek, who shrugs. "There aren't that many of us."

Stiles groans in defeat, and Danny smiles and stands. "Okay, I have to get going. Dinner on your side tomorrow?"

Stiles nods. "I'm making cornbread to go with Lydia's chili."

"Bless you both." He smiles. "It was good to meet you, Derek."

Derek nods, and Danny makes his way behind the corner and into the back of the shop after stopping to exchange a few words with Georgie.

Derek watches him thoughtfully. "He seems nice."

"Danny is seriously made of sunshine and goodwill, unless someone really pisses him off. He's probably the best thing that could've happened to Isaac."

To hear Laura tell it, no one in Scott's pack had any knowledge of supernatural etiquette and protocol before he was bitten. Stiles taught himself all this, and he's hitting it dead-on. He's talking Danny up to Derek by highlighting the things that would matter most to a born were: the database that makes Derek's life easier; the fact that Danny's easygoing but not a doormat; how good he is for Isaac. "You're good at this," Derek blurts, and then kind of wants to die.

Stiles blushes, but he doesn't pretend to misunderstand Derek or brush off his compliment. "It was a mess at first," he admits, "and sometimes it still sucks. But the alternative seemed unbearable when my brother's life was at risk, you know? 

Derek nods, because, dear god, does he know. "Your side?" he asks.

"We live in a duplex. Isaac, Danny, Lydia, and Allison on one side; Scott, Kira, and me on the other. We switch off a big-deal all-pack dinner every other week." Stiles lifts his hand but then hesitates. "You have—" He gestures at his own cheek. "There's a smudge of—here." He leans across the table, and his thumb rubs gently at Derek's cheek. Derek freezes, breath stuck in his throat, heart tripping like a hummingbird's.

Stiles swallows, and Derek stares at his throat, transfixed, as his Adam's apple bobs. He imagines, suddenly and vividly, setting his teeth there, gently, hardly any pressure at all. A calming bite. Mom used to do it to Dad, and he hasn't thought of it in years.

He forces his gaze upward, and that's not better. Stiles' pupils are so dilated the gorgeous amber of his irises is all but swallowed. And the _scent_ coming off him. It isn't pure physical desire; Derek's all too familiar with that. It's emotional desire, as well, the longing to _be_ with him. Derek wants it so badly he feels it in his marrow, and they _can't_. Not until June. Eight months has never seemed like a more daunting span of time.

Cups clatter behind the counter. The spell breaks. Stiles jerks his hand back.

Derek clears his throat. "Thank you," he says, and his voice sounds like gravel. "I was at the cemetery. I must've . . ." He trails off with a shrug.

Stiles smiles sadly. "You were by my mom, then. She's buried near your family."

"Oh," Derek says. He's never sure what to say in these situations. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"It's okay," Stiles says, heartbeat steady. "She's been gone a long time. And that's not—it still hurts, but talking about her is easier now."

"I'd love to hear about her," Derek says.

So Stiles talks. Damn, does he talk. It's not surprising; everyone Derek's been with has been a talker, probably to balance his own taciturnity. Stiles tells him about how Claudia Nowitska made amazing pumpkin bread and knew more about cars than every asshole mechanic in the county. About how his father's deputies adored her and used to fight, when she got sick, over who got to bring dinner to her and Stiles when the sheriff was working late shifts (now Derek knows why the name "Stilinski" seemed familiar to him. Sheriff Stilinski—Deputy Stilinski, he'd been—was the one who'd had to tell him and his sisters that their family was gone. He thinks Laura and Jordan worked with him to prove that the fire was arson, but Derek had been far gone inside himself then). About how her research into early child development had helped get Stiles' ADHD under control at an early age and spurred his desire to become a teacher. About how it hurt that she'd never met her granddaughter but that Stiles knew she would've loved Car. 

In return, Derek opens up about his family, more than he has in years. He talks about how tirelessly his mom worked for the Beacon County public defender, how she started the nationwide network of supernatural-aware defense attorneys who know how to help accused supernaturals navigate the human legal system. "It was a huge help when Jen died," he admits. When Stiles rests a hand on Derek's, Derek doesn't think twice about putting his other hand over it, absurdly grateful for his support.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says. "About what happened to her."

Derek shakes his head, not wanting to get into that right now. "She . . . she didn't know what she was doing, at the end. Remembering that helps."

He talks about how his dad did the family's cooking and got so good at making food in large quantities that he sold tomato sauce, jam, and pickles at the farmer's market. When he describes the whimsical wolf-and-moon label his brother designed for the jars, Stiles straightens, and his mouth drops open. "We loved that stuff! One day every year, Mom would go to the farmers market and buy every jar of red wine garlic sauce the guy had. I never knew that was your dad."

Heartache seizes up Derek's chest, as always. But something primal in him is preening, too, thinking that, even before he knew Stiles, the Hale pack was providing for him. Without consciously deciding to do it, he tells Stiles about how the sauce was born of desperation. Every time Aunt Erin came for dinner, she drank one and a half glasses of cheap red wine and left the bottle behind. Derek's dad developed the sauce as a defense against an encroaching army of mostly full bottles.

"I've never understood it," Stiles admits softly. "Kate put mountain ash around the house so the wolves couldn't get out, but Erin and your brother and grandfather were human. Why couldn't they break the ring and get everyone out?"

"My grandfather had emphysema. Probably lost consciousness within minutes of the fire igniting. But Owen was like Car: not a wolf but with muted versions of our powers. He would've been fast enough. Even if he couldn't get to a door, he would've known he'd survive a jump from any window in the house. And he could've carried Aunt Erin. Best guess?" He shrugs. "Somewhere in his attempts to outwit Kate, Uncle Peter must've taunted her with his magic supplies."

"Where she found something to incapacitate the humans."

Derek nods. Stiles' face turns hard and shuttered. Even dialing his senses way up doesn't give him a read on what Stiles is feeling, so he puts his other hand on top of Stiles' and squeezes. Stiles says, grimly, "Is it wrong to be grateful that Peter held on long enough to kill that bitch?"

"About as wrong as regretting that he died right after her, so we couldn't kill him ourselves."

A tension builds between them. There's so much Stiles doesn't know about his family and what happened to them. Derek can see himself telling Stiles all of those things someday, but not sitting in a tea shop when they've known each other for less than two months.

"Shit," Stiles mutters, and when he lifts his hand to rub his forehead, Derek realizes his other hand is still trapped between both of Derek's on the table. Derek grimaces and takes away his top hand, but when he tries to free the other one, Stiles tightens his hold on it. "Derek," he says softly. "Please don't."

"Stiles, we _can't_ ," Derek protests. "Not yet."

"We can," Stiles says. "People might not like it, but it's not forbidden." His cheeks turn adorably pink as he adds, "I reread the personal conduct portion of my contract. Repeatedly. Nothing in it says—"

"Stiles—"

"I don't want to give this up, Derek, do you?"

"I don't." There's no point in lying about that. He slides his hand carefully out from under Stiles'. "But I won't do that to you. Or Dewey. Or the other kids in your class."

"Pff." Stiles collapses back against his chair. "Of all the sweet, super-hot single dads in Beacon Hills, I choose the one with scruples." 

Derek grins. "Sorry."

Stiles smiles back. The moment is broken, yet the promise between them feels heavier and more obvious than ever. They stare at each other like love-struck idiots for a minute, and then Stiles jerks and scrambles to pull his phone from his pocket. "Crap," he mutters when he looks at the screen. "Boyd's asking where I am. I'm supposed to meet him and Kira at Brewer Park for lesson planning and the judgment of strangers."

Derek raises an eyebrow and tackles what seems like the easier part of that statement first. "You do lesson planning with a kindergarten teacher and a second grade teacher?"

"Not, like, together-together. We're not developing joint teaching strategies or anything. But we have similarities in styles, and we brainstorm how to deal with the supernatural stuff." At Derek's blank look, he says, "Our packs aren't the only supernatural families in Beacon Hills, and Laura gets as many of them as she can into our classes. We've gotten good at developing battle plans. You can't half-ass this shit."

"Huh." Derek ponders this for a minute and then asks, "The judgment of strangers?"

Stiles' motions grow fast and jerky as he crams things into his satchel. "We meet in the park as often as we can, because it's Kira's favorite place, and you don't argue with a pregnant lady who has a natural affinity for swordplay. But Boyd will have the kids, and Claud will hang around kibitzing our lesson plans. And it's funny how total strangers think they have any right to glare at a black dude just because a little white girl calls him 'Papa.' On extra-special days they call the cops, because they're sure he must've kidnapped her."

"Shit."

"Yeah," Stiles says with a bitter smile. "Good times. And I'll be righteously indignant, and he'll tell me not to white-knight him, and I'll sulk. It won't be pretty."

Derek's heard bits and pieces over the years about the trouble that sometimes finds Boyd when he and Car are out without Erica, but no one's mentioned it in a while, and he's assumed—naively, he realizes—that it's subsided. But it's probably worse now, because Car's old enough to start understanding that the world is full of assholes who look like her who will automatically distrust her relationship with her father because he _doesn't_ look like her.

Stiles waves his hand. "Don't listen to me. It's a beautiful day; I'll get to hang out with two great adults and three fantastic kids. I'll be fine."

"I'll walk you out," Derek offers, standing and slipping on his jacket.

"I wouldn't want to interrupt—"

"No, it's—" Derek checks his phone and is startled to realize he's been at the tea shop for three hours. It's time to head back to Rahil's house. He scowls. "I should go. Pick up Dewey."

"You seem kinda pissed about that, dude," Stiles says. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I—" Derek shakes his head. "There's this pod of single moms who've been eyeing me since the school year started. They're not good at taking no for an answer." Claiming he's still grieving Dewey's mom stopped working once word got around that Jen died five years ago, and saying, "I'm saving myself for Dewey's teacher" would go over poorly.

"I know them," Stiles says, grimacing, "We call them the shark moms. I wish I could tell you it gets better. Actually, it'll be worse for you than for me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I mean, next year their kids will have other teachers, but they'll be Dewey's classmates through graduation, unless they move."

Derek groans. "Or _I_ could move. To Siberia."

Stiles chuckles and pats Derek's arm. "They'd find you."

Derek drops a five in the tip jar as thanks to Georgie for keeping his teapot full and walks out of the shop—straight into Stiles, who's hovering his hand over the Bakfiets. Derek snorts a laugh and crosses his arms, watching. "Stiles?"

"Shhh," Stiles says, tracing his hand along the contours of the handlebars, "I'm having a moment."

"With my bike?"

Stiles whirls. "This is yours?" Derek nods. Stiles makes a strangled whine in the back of his throat. "You've had it the whole time you've been here? How have I not seen it?"

Derek's not surprised; it's not like he and Stiles have spent much time together. In fact, since the last full moon, Derek's gone out of his way to avoid Stiles—to avoid _temptation_ —as much as possible. Instead of confessing that, Derek shrugs and says, "It got here about a week after we did, but, yeah. It's not as practical in Beacon Hills as it was in New York. I use it for groceries and hauling the kids around to practices and games." He looks away for a minute until the flood of memories subsides enough for him to say, "Jen and I got it on Dewey's first birthday."

Stiles bowls over that. "You carry the kids in it?" He looks like he might swoon. 

"Cory. Dewey, Owen, and Vivi if it's a long ride or we're going on dangerous roads. Car and Andrew are old enough to ride their own bikes."

"And of course you lead them on little bike parades."

"Something like that." Derek shrugs one shoulder. "Every pack should have at least one vehicle that can haul stuff and doesn't depend on the availability of an external fuel supply."

One of Stiles' eyebrows lifts. "Werewolf survivalist?"

"Pragmatist. Our apartment in New York was shit, and the power went out all the time. And good luck finding parking. Using our own bodies to get things done felt more reliable. Cora calls those our 'Little Wolves on the Prairie' days." Derek gestures toward the basket. "Brewer Park is on my way to the Hassans'. I could give you a ride."

The offer is worth it for the look on Stiles' face. Wide-eyed and delighted, like a child's. "Are you freakin' kidding me?" he demands, staring at the basket with a curiously innocent longing. "You'd do that? You can do that?"

Derek sizes Stiles up. "You're under the weight limit."

"No way I'm under the weight limit, dude."

Derek smiles. "You're under _my_ weight limit. I reinforced the frame to increase my carrying capacity." He shrugs. "What's the point of werewolf strength if I can't use it?"

Stiles stares at him, unblinking, for three very uncomfortable seconds. Then he shakes his head. "Nope," he says, mostly to himself, "fuck this shit."

Before he's entirely aware that Stiles has moved, Derek's being kissed.

His brain takes half a second to catch up, but when it does it _races_ into motion. He winds his arms tight around Stiles' back, one hand splayed across his shoulder blade, the other low, bracing the small of his back and dipping down into the waistband of his jeans. One of Stiles' hands presses against Derek's chest, and the other snakes up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the stubble along his jawline.

Derek groans and tilts his head, and Stiles' lips slide slick and hot against his. The hand at his chest grabs his shirt and twists, hauling their bodies closer together. Stiles' scent is everywhere, saturating Derek with ginger and spearmint and clean, solid Earth. Derek's body is singing, sensation surging up like molten lava toward the top of a volcano. The shift claws at him, primal instincts begging to be set loose on this human who smells like _want_ and _mine_. His eyes are shut tight, but he knows if he opened them, the world would be tinged red.

Shaking with effort and desire, Derek pulls back. Stiles whimpers and chases after him. He laughs and presses one tiny kiss at each corner of Stiles' mouth before stepping out of Stiles' hold.

"Oh, god," Stiles says. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I know we can't—but I couldn't—"

"Go out with me," Derek says, and he'd had no idea that was coming out of his mouth until it does.

Stiles freezes. "What?"

"Just once. I have to—I know I'm the one saying we can't do anything until June. And I'm willing to wait. But . . . one date, to give me a taste of what I'm waiting for."

Stiles' eyes narrow. "And if a taste isn't enough?" He touches his lips as though feeling the echo of the kiss on them.

"It'll have to be. Because no matter what happens with us, Dewey is my first priority. I'm not going to jeopardize her education or her safety." He smiles. "Or your career."

"Ugh." Stiles' face twists into the most adorable grimace Derek has ever seen. "Why are fiercely overprotective dads so hot?" He scrubs both hands rapidly over his face. "I—god, I hate to do this, but if we're going to do _this_ , I have to ask." He looks hesitantly at Derek from under long eyelashes. "Your eyes. Was it Jen?"

Derek's stomach plummets, and his jaw clenches once, hard, before he manages to force the words past the lump in his throat. "No, it was—they were already like this when she died. I—it was a mercy killing."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a couple times. "Can you tell me _anything_ more than that?"

"I—no." Derek shakes his head. "Not yet, Stiles, please, I—someday. Soon. But not now. Not like this."

"Okay." Stiles takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily, nods once. "Yeah. I guess that's enough for now. Okay, so. One date. Next Saturday, if you're free?"

Derek nods. "I get off at three."

"Great. We'll plan. We'll make plans. Plans will be made. Oh my god why doesn't someone stop me?"

Laughing, Derek catches both of Stiles' hands in one of his. Stiles moans, and Derek tucks that information away for later before he sets his other hand against the side of Stiles' neck and squeezes lightly. "Stiles," he says, "it'll be fine. Go to the park. They're waiting for you."

"Yeah." Stiles swallows and leans into Derek's touch. "You gonna be okay against the shark moms?"

Derek huffs out a chuckle. "I'll survive." He releases all contact and steps toward the bike. "Still want a ride?"

Stiles looks longingly at the basket but shakes his head. "Better not, now. I don't know if I could control myself after a ride in that thing."

Derek chuckles. He dares to reach out and brush his fingertips across Stiles' cheek.

Stiles hisses through gritted teeth but doesn't pull away. " _Derek_."

"I know. I'm sorry. I—"

"Saturday." Stiles says it like a promise.

"Saturday." Derek says it like a prayer.


	4. There's One in Every Neighborhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the plot takes a hard left turn!
> 
> Many thanks as always to my beta, the incomparable [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi). Thanks for making me look good.
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings:** descriptions of a (minor, non-POV) character being held in captivity; misogynistic and vaguely fascist language

**_October 14, 2021_ **

"Hi, you've reached Derek—"

"And Dewey!"

"We're sorry we can't take your call right now. Leave a message at the beep."

"Heeey, Derek, it's Stiles. This is not me canceling our date tonight. Except it's totally me canceling our date tonight. Because of . . . oh, fuck."

"If you are satisfied with your recording, press pound. To rerecord, press star and try again."

"Hey, Derek. Stiles here. Hey, what has four thumbs and isn't having sex tonight? That's right—us!"

"Stiles!"

"Oh! Knock, knock? Who's there? The Hale and McCall packs. The Hale and McCall packs who? WHO ARE GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS, EMISSARY-KIDNAPPING MOTHERFUCKERS!"

"Stiles, I swear to god, if you don't leave my brother a message or hang up in the next thirty seconds, I'm throwing your phone out the window!"

Stiles glares at the back of Laura's head as he takes a deep breath and starts a new voicemail message for Derek, determined to power through no matter what. "Derek, it's Stiles. I am _so_ looking forward to our date. Like, you don't know how much.

"Which is why it so totally kills me to have to postpone it. Postpone, definitely! Definitely not canceling. Just postponing. For a while.

"It's just . . . shit's going down with the pack next door. Like, terrible, nasty stuff. Ask Erica to fill you in, if you want. But I have to help Laura and Scott sort it out.

"I don't know how long we'll be gone. We want to be in and out as quickly as possible, because these guys are a bunch of unconscionable cockmonkeys—"

"Stiles . . ."

"—but it's a delicate situation that can blow up at, like, the slightest provocation, which I am always liable to provide.

"So . . . yeah. I can't go out with you tonight because I won't be in town tonight. And that sucks. So let's reschedule. If you're not willing to risk a whole date, we can meet up at Quarter Moon or schedule a playdate for Dewey and Claud. Just . . . please don't give up on this."

Stiles hangs up and throws his phone onto the seat next to him, disgusted with himself. He looks up to find Scott staring at him with wide, wondering eyes. "Dude. What?"

"Bro," Scott says, voice quiet with awe, "you got it _bad_."

"That was the most pathetic thing I have ever heard," Laura says from the driver's seat, shaking her head, "and I lived through Derek's adolescence, so that was a high bar."

"Shut up," Stiles says weakly. He leans his head against the window and looks at Deaton in the front passenger seat. They've had more than their share of differences, but right now he's the only person in the car not audibly passing judgment on Stiles' love life, which makes him Stiles' favorite.

"Dude, is this a good idea?" Scott asks. "You're Dewey's teacher."

"That's why we're doing this," Stiles says, leaning forward. "Just one date. We'll be like . . . like . . . dating camels."

Laura twists in her seat, the better to stare skeptically at him. "Dating camels?"

"Yeah!" Stiles grins at her. "Like, we'll go on one date now and get it out of our systems. We'll know what it's like, and we won't have months of anticipation and uncertainty ahead of us. It's brilliant."

"It's insane," Scott corrects. He turns and looks at Stiles full-on. "It's literally the relationship equivalent of 'just the tip.'"

Stiles grimaces, because, _dude_. "Laura, tell him."

"I would, if I disagreed with him."

"Aaargh!" Stiles throws up his hands. "Deaton? A little sense, please, to balance out the alpha drama queens here."

"Hmm," Deaton says thoughtfully. "Have you considered the ramifications of a relationship with Derek? Interpack relationships—"

"Are nowhere near the catastrophe everyone makes them out to be!" Stiles waves his hands around.

"You and Erica—" Scott says.

"Were 17 and angry at everything," Stiles snaps. "We lasted two and a half months, and that was more than I expected. We would've crashed and burned no matter whose packs we were in. Hell, we would've crashed and burned even if we'd never _heard_ of werewolf packs."

"Yeah," Laura says, "but it's—"

"Cora and Allison," Stiles says. Cutting off two alpha werewolves in confined quarters is far from his finest work, but he's not going to listen to people telling him to give up on Derek before they've started because of bullshit supernatural politics. "Go on: tell me that relationship hasn't benefitted both our packs." Everyone looks away. "Derek and I are adults. We know what's at stake. We can handle ourselves."

By way of reply, the three august personages in the car with him—an alpha he respects highly, the man who taught him everything he knows about magic, and _his own fucking brother_ —make wishy-washy, unconvinced sounds. Stiles flops back in his seat and vows to put in a work order for new friends as soon as he gets home.

"What do we know about this emissary?" Scott asks, and the next time they're out of the car, Stiles is giving him the _biggest_ hug. By this point Scott has memorized everything Danny dug up on the Adams pack's possible emissary and doesn't need Stiles to as-you-know-Bob it for him. But he'll ask anyway, to take the pressure off Stiles.

"Anna Kraft is 19," Stiles begins. "She's a sophomore anthro major at UC Beacon. She lives on campus but spends most of her time at her grove-priest's house. She grew up in Beacon City, and her parents and three sisters still live there. She had a boyfriend in high school, but they broke up before they started college. As far as her friends know, she hasn't dated since. She's more focused on magical work and triathlons, which, _ugh_.

"Anna's grovemates think she connected with the pack six months ago. She got _totally_ obsessed with moon cycles. The grove-priest sent me . . . this." He swipes to the picture of Anna's dorm wall, covered with an enormous chart showing moon phase dates and times for the next five years. It's speckled with color-coded symbols and notes in cipher. "He also sent an inventory of her bookshelf, and she'd been devouring every book on lunar magic she could find. And I mean _every_ book. Some of these are _super_ sketchy."

"What about books on werewolves?" Laura asks.

"Nothing on the shelves, and no one remembers seeing her with any. She may have kept that quiet. Or she may not have thought she needed to study it. Unscrupulous alphas—which describes Adams to a fucking T—sometimes convince potential emissaries that they don't need to understand how werewolves operate." He sighs and shoves his hand through his hair. "Relationships like that end badly for the emissaries."

"And we're sure the Adams pack has her?" That crease between Scott's eyebrows says he's worried about the shit they could stir up if they zero in on the wrong pack.

Stiles shrugs. "Reasonably sure? I mean, there's no way to be _completely_ sure until we see her. But she made some comment about helping 'the twins' with a project. California only has three werewolf packs with twins, and only one whose emissary is unaccounted for." Plus, he chooses not to say aloud, Alpha Adams' statements on humans' inferiority to werewolves and on "proper" alpha-emissary relationships, are required reading for several Druid training programs. Stiles has _no_ trouble believing this guy would seduce a young woman into serving as his emissary and then trap her in god knows what terrible conditions and abuse her for her power.

Maybe Stiles will keep his friends after all. At least they aren't evil.

The Adams packhouse is a two-story affair in Spanish colonial style, an adobe rectangle built around a central courtyard. Stiles sends out tendrils of magic, searching for Anna. He doesn't find any heartbeat or magical signature that reads as _human_ or _emissary_ , but a section of the house seems muffled, as though it's being magically guarded against exactly what Stiles is doing. He looks at Deaton and raises his eyebrows. Deaton nods grimly. Stiles squares his shoulders and follows Scott and Laura into the courtyard.

When Stiles referred to the Adams pack's betas as "eight-tentacled creepsters," that was an exaggeration. After all, when he and Scott met the pack, there'd been three betas, so at most they were six-tentacled creepsters.

Now there are four betas, and the instant he and Scott see the newest addition, they drop into defense mode. Scott crouches, eyes flickering red, claws and fangs ready to be unsheathed at a moment's notice. Stiles calls up magic from himself and from the earth, mindful of the damage this man has done, the chaos and imbalance he's wrought.

"Scott," Ennis says, like he's greeting a long-lost cousin, "I hear you're an alpha now. How's it working for you? You handling that feeling of being power-drunk? Of wanting to kill and eat every living thing that crosses your path to feel the power it gives you?"

"I'm not like that," Scott snarls through clenched teeth. "I’m not like _you_. I've _never_ felt like that."

Ennis looks him over. "Huh," he says, voice dripping with skepticism.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks, each word clipped.

Ennis turns to smirk at Stiles. "And the human. Still half a step behind, I see."

A chuckle rings through the courtyard. It's smooth, cultured, and so lacking in sincerity that every hair on Stiles' arm stands up in restless readiness. "Ah, yes, I'd forgotten." Deucalion Adams' polished British accent always holds disdain for everyone he addresses. Stiles has _almost_ been able to forget that tone, and the instant it fills his ears he remembers how much he hasn't missed it. Deucalion crosses the courtyard with the ease of familiarity, his white cane making no sound against the brown flagstones. "You weren't around for Ennis's . . . dethroning."

"What do you mean?" Scott asks sharply.

"I mean, my dear boy," Deucalion says, and _wow_ , those three words has never sounded so distressing before, "that Ennis has been stripped of his alpha powers. He is a beta once more. My beta, as of last year."

Stiles sucks in a breath and turns his gape-jawed stare into as much of a smirk as he can muster. "What's that, Ennis?" he asks, more flippantly than he feels, "you finally get smacked down for turning Scott without his consent?"

"Oh, Mr. Stilinski," Deucalion purrs, slinging an unwelcome arm around Stiles' shoulders, "your loyalty to your alpha is touching. But, no, Ennis's encounter with Alpha McCall is but one of his offenses. We operate on what you humans, with your amusing fondness for sport metaphors, would call a 'three-strike system.' Ennis's first strike, of course, was the unpleasantness with Derek Hale and his poor beloved."

Stiles' heart skips a beat, and Deucalion's smile turns wide and pointed. Goddamned werewolf hearing. But by god, that blip is all the satisfaction Stiles will give him. Deucalion waits, no doubt smelling these emotions playing out, before he continues casually, "Ennis's gift to Scott was his second strike."

" _Gift_!" Scott snarls. Stiles takes advantage of his alpha's distress to slip out from under Deucalion's crushing hold, putting a hand on Scott's arm to hold him back.

Deucalion turns his face toward Scott with a disappointed air. "Are you not an alpha now?" he asks. "A _true_ alpha, which we haven't seen here in a century. With your own pack, and a mate, and a child on the way? What part of your life is not vastly improved over the scrawny, unpopular human who struggled to breathe and could never have caught the eye of the thunder kitsune who now carries your child?"

Scott's eyes flash red, and his gaze fixes on Ennis as he snaps, "The part where I _didn't_ _want it_." He looks back at Deucalion, and Stiles wants to cheer when Deucalion flinches at the intensity of Scott's glare. Even without seeing it, the other alpha knows it's full of seething rage. "I know it's hard for a born wolf to understand, Alpha Adams, but being human isn't a _handicap_. It's not some evolutionary disadvantage we're struggling to overcome. Most of us _like_ being human. _I_ liked being human—asthma and scrawniness and all. Maybe I would've agreed to the bite if Ennis has asked. But he _didn't_. And I will _never_ forgive that."

As proud as Stiles is of his brother at this moment, warning lights and sirens are going off like crazy in his mind. They've been here for five minutes and Scott's getting into a fight with the resident alpha and one of his biggest, strongest, used-to-be-an-alpha betas (Cora's research suggests that betas who used to be alphas retain a modicum of their former powers, putting them in a sort of beta-plus category. Stiles wishes he'd asked more questions about _how much_ power).

"I suggest we step back, take a deep breath, and regroup." Stiles has never been more glad for Deaton's calm, measured tone and reasonable words. "We're all invested in a favorable outcome to this meeting, so let's collect ourselves before our more volatile emotions overrun us."

A long, tense standoff ensues. Ennis sneers at Scott; Scott glares at Ennis. Deucalion stands to the side, arms crossed, pretending he's an innocent bystander in this near-catastrophe. Then Scott relaxes. He straightens his spine and shakes out his hand, sheathing his claws and letting the red fade from his eyes. "Yeah," he says, "let's do that."

Deucalion and Ennis lead them into the house, as is their right as the hosting pack (on top of which, Stiles would never voluntarily expose his unprotected back to these assholes). Scott, as a visiting alpha (where the hell is Laura?) follows; Deaton and Stiles, as the emissaries, bring up the rear. It's an archaic formality, but Stiles has _no_ doubt that it reflects the Adams pack's views on the proper order of the supernatural world.

This part of the house is one story, with a vaulted ceiling stretching dramatically above them. The open floor plan, which separates kitchen from dining area from living room with a change in flooring and, in the case of the kitchen, a large island counter lined with bar stools, reminds Stiles of a larger, swanker version of the god-awful studio apartment he and Scott shared their senior year of college. The décor has a faux-rustic hunting lodge feel: exposed wood beams in the ceiling; a large dining table that looks hand-hewn from a single felled oak; thick, dark green carpeting—weirdly incongruous with the architecture.

Stiles is beyond startled to find Laura in the kitchen, a glass of white wine in her hand, leaning against the counter and chatting with Kali, the Adams pack's only woman and by far its scariest member, who's barefoot as always. In the living room, the twins, Ethan and Aiden, slouch on a brown leather couch, hilarious mirror images of bored disdain.

"Everyone," Deucalion says, raising his voice as though addressing a large crowd, "gather 'round for introductions."

They do formal introductions, and Stiles is shocked to discover that Laura hasn't met Ennis before. Whatever the "unfortunate incident" with Derek was, whatever rampaging Ennis had been doing around Beacon Hills when he turned Scott, whatever his "third strike" was, it happened without Laura's knowledge. This terrifies Stiles more than anything else he's learned so far today. And the day's not over yet.

Deucalion smiles and gestures toward the table. "I'm so pleased you've arrived in time for dinner," he says. Kali pulls out a chair for Laura. One of the twins does likewise for Stiles (the gay twin, he's guessing from the lascivious gaze he feels on his ass as he sits down), and the other twin sullenly repeats the gesture for Deaton. Stiles thinks there'll be a brawl when Ennis pulls out Scott's chair, but Scott remembers his manners and his standing and sits with a barely grateful word of thanks.

Once they're seated, Kali and Deucalion bring out dinner. The food looks delicious—steak with mushrooms, a broccoli-cauliflower medley in herbed butter sauce, and spinach salad—and the Adams pack tucks in without hesitation once everyone's served. Still, they might've tampered with their visitors' plates but not their own, so Stiles passes his hand under his plate beneath the table and mutters a few words of Gaelic that he can pass off as a prayer if asked.

The rules of hospitality disapprove of both poisoning your guests and accusing your hosts of trying to poison you. If one of the Adamses catches him, it could jeopardize this operation before it begins. Still, better shunned than dead. When his spell reveals nothing out of the ordinary and he looks around to make sure no one spotted his actions, he's relieved and unsurprised to see Deaton's hand appear from under the table at the same moment. They catch each other's eyes and smile ruefully.

During dinner, they keep the conversation pleasant. Light. They _do not_ talk about any anthro-studying, triathlon-participating emissary who may or may not have gone missing from Adams territory after she may or may not have gotten into a car whose driver vaguely matches Kali's description. But the pack members drop hints they don't realize are hints, and by the time everyone retreats to the living room for after-dinner drinks, Stiles knows more about the Adams pack's dynamics than anyone knows he was watching for. And he's 102 percent certain they've abducted Anna and hidden her somewhere.

Deucalion lays an arm along the back of the couch. That drapes it over Kali's shoulders, but he stretches further and brushes his fingertips across the side of one of the twins' necks. The twin (Stiles is almost sure this one's Ethan) shudders—and not an "ooh, do that again" shudder. Stiles sips sherry from a heavy cut-glass tumbler and tries to keep away from Aiden's hand, which keeps creeping closer to him (wait, is Aiden the gay one? Stiles thought it was Ethan, that Aiden's the one who dated Lydia. Maybe they're both equal-opportunity skeezes).

"In ancient times," Deucalion says, and _oh, god, here we go._ "Emissaries were servants to werewolf packs. They didn't 'advise' the alpha or question his decisions." Stiles looks at Laura and mouths " _his._ " Laura rolls her eyes. "The alpha decided what magic needed doing, and the emissary did it, no questions asked."

Deaton raises his eyebrows at Stiles, silently questioning whether Stiles wants to field this one. Which he does. Deaton's been at the emissary gig for longer, but Stiles has been fascinated by the history and lore of their kind since the moment he learned he could lay a mountain ash circle. Plus, Deaton has to uphold his reputation as a calm, measured emissary. Stiles has to uphold _his_ reputation as a confrontational, motor-mouthed know-it-all. "Actually," he says, "that's not true."

Deucalion's betas tense up, although while the twins seem nervous, Ennis and Kali look like they plan to derive droll entertainment from watching their alpha rip this upstart human to shreds. Stiles has been on the receiving end of this look before, usually from Laura's pack; he isn't worried. "In _really_ ancient times—pre-Roman England, when the Druids first developed relationships with werewolves and created the emissary role—emissaries were even more trusted and honored advisors than we are now, equal in rank to the alpha's second." He bares his teeth at Kali in a smile that's mostly sneer, which she returns with a growl. "Emissaries had leave to approach the alpha before he or she asked for them, to warn of impending threats or offer assistance with interpack disputes. Most emissaries lived in the packhouse or in a cottage at the edge of the territory where they, like most magic users of the time, protected the boundaries."

"The territory boundaries?" Ethan asks.

Stiles shrugs. "Whichever boundaries needed protecting. Magic users were seen as mediators between this world and the next, the supernatural and the mundane, civilization and the wild places. Alphas gave them the autonomy to do what they felt needed doing."

"And if an alpha decided not to listen to his emissary?" Deucalion asks. His expression is mild, but his voice has taken a hard edge.

"Different things in different places. But the most common was that the emissary would leave, and the alpha would be blacklisted. Other emissaries would be warned away from the pack." He holds Deucalion's gaze as he adds, "Most packs lasted less than a year without an emissary."

Scott and Laura shudder, but Deucalion and his betas keep sneering, disbelieving. Deaton, as mildly as if he's talking about the weather, adds, "The master-servant hierarchy you're talking about, Alpha Adams, didn't come to the British Isles until the Romans conquered them and imposed their own system. Of course, the Romans had their own reasons for wanting emissaries subservient to werewolves."

Deucalion's smile turns knowing. "The Romans understood the superiority of werewolves over humans, even magical ones."

Stiles can only imagine how unpleasant this conversation must be for Deaton and Scott (and probably Kali), because Deucalion's "Lycans uber alles" language is so similar to the things white supremacists say, but Deaton gives Deucalion a level stare and says, "Or it could be that, while Roman werewolves were stronger than British ones, Druid emissaries were far more powerful than Roman magic users. Making emissaries subservient was one way the Romans kept the Druids from throwing off Roman rule—which they could have done easily with their emissaries at their full power."

"It's also," Stiles adds, "why the British Isles, which once had the largest werewolf population in Europe, had _three_ packs left by the end of the Pax Romana."

An uneasy silence falls over the room. Then Aiden blurts, "Bullshit." Stiles isn't sure who he's trying to convince.

"Look it up," he snaps back. Aiden's eyes flash blue at him, but Stiles scoffs and drinks his sherry. A lot of years have passed since blue beta eyes scared him.

"Emissaries exist in a delicate balance with the packs we serve," Deaton says. "We are outmatched, physically and numerically. We enter into emissary arrangements protected only by magic and faith that the pack will abide by the treaties laid out over the centuries. Without that trust, an emissary cannot trust her pack." _Ooh, nice_. With only male emissaries in the room, Deaton's pronoun makes it obvious who he's talking about. "And an emissary who cannot trust her pack cannot function properly for them."

"Treaties," Deucalion scoffs. "Human inventions, put in place to protect _them_. As the superior being, I see no reason to abide by any document that inhibits my ability to rule and expand my territory as I see fit."

That cold feeling comes back over Stiles times a thousand. _Rule and expand._ If Deucalion's disregarding the treaties that govern alpha-emissary relationships _and_ acquisition of territory, either the McCall or Hale packs could be facing a deadly challenge any day now.

Scott, bless his heart, looks appalled at Deucalion's pronouncement. "We have to live by the rules," he insists. " _Were_ wolf, right? Man-wolf. We have to honor our human side as much as our wolf side."

Deucalion makes a grand gesture at his enormous house and the expensive shit it contains. "Do I appear to be having difficulty honoring my human side, Alpha McCall?"

"Putting lipstick on a pig doesn't make it a woman," Laura says idly, swirling her brandy around its snifter. She looks up at Deucalion and shrugs. "It's a pig wearing lipstick."

Deucalion chuckles, inclining his head toward her. "Touché, Alpha Hale," he says. "On the other hand, one might point out that a pig is perfect in its piggish nature and has no need of lipstick." He spread his hands in a showy "here I am" gesture. " _My_ nature is that of an apex predator. Why should I restrain myself for the sake of any human?"

"Because people who serve you out of fear don't give you their best effort." Laura says.

Deucalion smiles wider. "I don't need their best effort," he says. "I just need them to be good enough."

Stiles is having trouble getting air into his lungs. _Good enough? **Good enough?**_ Is Deucalion a complete idiot, or is he more unhinged than they've realized? He's talking about people who can literally control the forces of nature and manipulate the fabric of reality. Keeping them in conditions that only allow for "good enough" is akin to putting someone in thick mittens and then handing them a gun and telling them, "shoot over there."

Deucalion's mouth ticks up. "Struck a nerve, have I?"

Stiles reels his rage in with extreme effort. "No, I'm fine," he says. It's on the tip of his tongue to just demand that Deucalion tell him where Anna is. With every second that passes, his worry for her safety increases.

Deucalion turns his attention to Scott. "Alpha McCall," he says, offering a smile that's supposed to be charming but creeps Stiles out further, "how is your mate?"

Stiles only notices Scott's flinch because they've been best friends since they were five and brothers since they were fourteen. "My _wife_ is doing well, thank you, Alpha Adams," he says. He does a good job of keeping the tension out of his voice, but Stiles wonders if anyone else saw the tic in his jaw.

"I hear congratulations are in order?" As soon as Kali enters the conversation, Stiles wants her out again. Scary lady is _scary_. "Duke mentioned a baby on the way?"

As pointless as it would be to deny it, Stiles wants Scott to do exactly that. Something about Kali inquiring after Scott and Kira's baby makes Stiles' insides shrivel up and hide, and he wants to rush back to Beacon Hills and whisk Kira into hiding until the baby is born. And then until it turns 30.

But Scott's face breaks into a smile, and he gushes, "She's due in early February. I think she's spending the weekend shopping for nursery furniture with her mom and mine. Do you want to see pictures?"

As one, the Adams pack leans toward Scott. A light in their eyes and hunger in their expressions make Stiles' skin crawl. "Ultrasound pictures?" Kali asks.

"No." Scott laughs. "Pictures of Kira. No ultrasound. Dr. Deaton and I don't have easy access to the equipment, and Kira can't have a normal one, because no one knows what the baby looks like at this stage, you know? Hard to explain pointy ears or spirit tails."

Stiles tries to use his and Scott's brolepathy to tell Scott to _shut up._ He wants Deucalion and his pack to know as little as possible about Baby Yukimura-McCall. But Kali's playing to Scott's pride as a first-time father-to-be, and Scott's falling for it like an egg from a tall chicken. "Do you know what it is?" Kali asks.

Stiles doesn't know if it's the phrasing of the question or the tone of Kali's voice, but Scott remembers his caution and pulls back. "It's a baby," he tells her in a flat tone that says further pursuit of this line of questioning will be pleasantly but implacably shut down.

Conceding defeat more graciously than Deucalion, Kali inclines her head and accepts Scott's phone for pictures of Kira. Stiles watches her like a hawk and doesn't miss when she tries to swipe out of the camera roll and into the rest of the phone. Stiles can't imagine what she's looking for; it's not like Scott has a "Pack Secrets" app. It doesn't matter anyway, because Danny's relentless about protecting packmembers' phones. Kali has access to Scott's pictures because Scott unlocked them for her, but she won't be able to open anything else. After a moment of futilely smashing at the screen, she hands the phone back to Scott with a smile that comes nowhere near her eyes.

"Babies are such a blessing to a pack, don't you think?" Deucalion asks. Stiles hears a wistful note in his voice, but it sounds faked. "You have . . . five in your pack, Alpha Hale, is that right?"

Once again, a hope seizes Stiles that Laura will lie. He can't stand baring the Hale pack's children to this conniver's scrutiny. But Laura smiles. "Six, now," she says. "My brother and his daughter have moved back to town and formally rejoined the pack."

There Laura goes calling Dewey Derek's "daughter" again, which is vexing but a lesser concern than the considering look on Deucalion's face. "Derek Hale," he says thoughtfully. He turns to Stiles and Deaton. "His late wife was a Druid, was she not? I recall a . . . difficulty, a few years ago."

Deaton's spine straightens, and he glares at Deucalion. "I will not discuss that incident without Mr. Hale present," he says tightly.

"Of course, of course," Deucalion says dismissively. "What an interesting pack life you must have," he muses. "Werewolf and phoenix, werewolf and Druid, and now werewolf and kitsune. Full moons must be _quite_ the adventure."

"Well," Laura drawls, "Scott and Kira aren't part of our pack, of course."

"No," Deucalion says. "No, they're not, are they?" The considering expression comes back, and Stiles wants to punch it. The urge to punch—and claw and bite—grows stronger when Deucalion's head turns toward Stiles. "You have a daughter, do you not, Mr. Stilinski? She's also half Druid, half werewolf, is that right?"

The edges of Stiles' vision blur. He's never done the "overprotective father" schtick with Claud. Since the second she was born he's loved her more than he'd imagined possible, but he's left fierce protectiveness to Erica and Boyd, who do a way better job of it and have, he feels, a better claim to it.

But sitting in this faux-woodsy living room, surrounded by werewolves who can rip the life out of him without breaking a sweat, Stiles knows one thing with _absolute_ certainty, feels it in his bones as a truth more unshakeable than any other in his life: he will _die_ to protect his child, without question or hesitation—and he'll take out as many of these bastards as he can before the last breath leaves his body.

He shoves those feelings down as far as they'll go and grins sharply at Deucalion. "That's right," he says, and he barely recognizes his own voice, distorted by poorly contained rage. "I'll give you three guesses which half is which. No peeksies."

The Adams pack boggles at him. But Laura snickers, and then Scott, and in a second they're both laughing loudly, and the moment passes, although their hosts keep looking at Stiles like _he's_ the crazy one.

The conversation drifts. The twins start participating more, and their cleverness disappoints Stiles. He's known they're not _total_ lumps, or Lydia wouldn't have dated whichever one it was, but he's heard about their acts of senseless cruelty. Stiles' mind has difficulty reconciling those stories with two guys who offer clever commentary on the upcoming state elections and have read the entire run of _Chew_ and debate him for fifteen minutes about differences between the comics and the new show.

It's an accident, the way they get back to Anna. Ethan and Aiden have been tag-teaming a hilarious story about a perpetually stoned omega who rolled through their territory the year before. Though generally harmless, the omega had a tenuous relationship with what she'd insisted on calling "wristwatch time."

Stiles' amusement shades toward horror when Kali explains how they ultimately kept her in a state of forced timelessness for 48 hours. The weres must smell the sour disgust rolling off him, but he leans on sarcasm rather than revulsion when he says, "Whoa, dude, isn't that, like, a form of torture under the Geneva Convention or something?"

Deucalion leans back in his chair and gives a lazy smile. "It's a good thing werewolves aren't bound by the Geneva Convention, then."

Who the _fuck_ does this guy think he is? Stiles is seconds away from an ill-fated crack about exempting _himself_ from the Geneva Convention when Deaton remarks, with deceptive calm, "That would be quite a feat of magic. A normal room with no windows or clocks wouldn't work for a shifter, given your heightened awareness of natural cycles, including the movement of the sun."

"Sure," Aiden says from the couch corner he's sprawled across. "That's why it's great to have an emissary who's so scared of you she'll literally do anything you tell her to."

Aiden realizes his blunder the instant the words leave his mouth, but it's too late. Deucalion roars and leaps across the room, the red blaze of his eyes visible behind his dark glasses. Ethan jumps up, too, positioning himself between his alpha and his twin. The Hale-McCall contingent comes to its feet, ready for whatever comes next.

" _Stop_." The voice thunders through the space, the last voice Stiles would've expected to appeal to order and restraint. Kali pads forward, and Deucalion's head swivels toward her. She puts a hand on his arm. "Duke, he did us a favor. How much longer could we have sat here playing nice while everyone pretended not to know why they're here?"

Deucalion gives no reaction that Stiles can see, but Kali must read something in his expression, because she lowers her hand and turns to their visitors. "Yes, we have an emissary. Yes, she's the girl you're looking for. No, you will not be taking her."

Deaton and Stiles push ahead of their alphas to stand in front of Kali. Stiles crosses his arms, but Deaton leaves his hands free at his sides, maintaining the illusion of the easygoing veterinarian who doesn't want trouble. "We will," Deaton says.

"She signed a contract." It's the first thing Ennis has said in half an hour. It seems like a strange aspect of the situation to be principled about, given Ennis's history with contracts and agreements.

Unruffled, Deaton says, "If Anna has requested asylum or release from that contract, or if she produces proof that she signed under duress, she will be free to leave with us, in accordance with the 1825 Treaty of Vancouver."

"I didn't sign the Treaty of Vancouver," Deucalion scoffs. "It has no authority over me."

"Oh, my _god_!" Stiles throws up his hands. " _Of course_ you didn't sign the _1825_ Treaty of Vancouver. You didn't sign the Declaration of Independence or the US Constitution, either, but you seem happy to take advantage of what they have to offer."

"The Treaty of Vancouver is an affront to shifters," Deucalion growls. "It hobbles our animal instincts and strengths, making us subservient to our weaker human sides. I want no part in it."

"Then _move_ ," Laura says, stepping forward to stand beside the emissaries. "Ukraine has no shifter treaties. Ghana. Paraguay." Stiles swallows his smirk. Those countries also have the world's three highest mortality rates for supernatural beings.

"Here's the other thing," Stiles says. "It seems a little hypocritical to talk up what a superior predator you are when you have a CalSecure 2020 security system. One of our packmates helped design that. It's a state-of-the-art system secretly tailored against supernatural threats. What's the matter, demon wolf? Apex predator status not what it used to be?"

Deucalion lunges at Stiles. Scott's there first, like always, throwing himself between them. Stiles can't see what's going on, but his money's on red eyes and elongated fangs.

"We don't want a fight," Scott says. He doesn't glare at Stiles, but Stiles hears it in his voice. "Give us the girl, and we'll go. Easy."

Stiles takes stock of the room. Laura and Ennis are staring each other down not far from Scott and Deucalion. The twins are watching Deaton, which means— _oh crap_. Stiles swallows bile as he realizes that Kali has gotten _right behind him_ without his notice. Now that he knows she's there, he's hyperaware of her every breath and movement. His magic's at the tips of his fingers, but if this situation goes south, he isn't sure he'll have time to fire off a spell before she attacks. He doesn't regret mouthing off to Deucalion, but he wishes he'd thought the aftermath a few more steps through.

The moment is long, intense, and terrifying. Abruptly, Deucalion straightens. "Why do you care?" he asks.

Scott blinks, thrown by Deucalion's change in demeanor. "What do you mean, why do I care?"

"I mean, _why do you care_? She's a human. A useful one, but replaceable. You can always find another human with magic." For a second, every head in the Adams pack turns toward Stiles, and he shudders. "Why waste energy and goodwill on this one?"

Scott takes a deep breath, let it out. "If you don't understand why a human life is important," he says, "I can't explain it to you. Now tell us where she is, and let us leave."

Another long, tense silence falls over them, and then Deucalion sighs as though Scott's disappointed him. "As I feared. Ethan will take you to the girl. But never forget that you can only reach her because I allow it. You could never have defeated me."

Scott ignores the taunt but holds Ethan off when he steps forward. "What do you mean, 'as you feared'?" Scott asks.

Deucalion turns an expression of coldest disdain toward Scott. "It's supposed to _mean_ something, 'true alpha.' But you're weak, refusing to do what needs to be done to win the battle."

"Do you _want_ me to kill you?" Scott asks, shaking his head. "I could. Two alphas and two Druids against one alpha and four betas seems like fair odds to me. But what good would it do? _That's_ what being a true alpha means: I understand that winning doesn't always require death." He turns from Deucalion and tells Ethan, "Let's go."

Deucalion, the melodramatic cowfucker, waits until Scott's to the door, Laura and the emissaries on his heels, before he says, "Winning _always_ requires death. Just because you aren't aware that it happened doesn't mean it didn't."

Scott freezes. Laura manages not to slam into him by virtue of her superior werewolf reflexes, but Stiles, lacking that advantage, gets a faceful of her brown hair. "What are you saying?" Scott asks, like Deucalion must've known he would. Scott cries the morning after a full moon if he realizes he killed so much as a rabbit. If Deucalion's implying some darker deed that Scott's been unaware of, it'll devastate him.

"When did you become an alpha?" Deucalion asks. "About nine years ago, wasn't it?" Stiles' palms itch. Whatever Deucalion's about to reveal, they aren't going to like it. Deucalion takes a step sideways to stand next to Ennis. "Curious. Ennis lost his alpha status at about the same time. I wonder, if we compared calendars, what conclusions we might draw."

Laura's hand shoots out, wrapping around Scott's arm. "Scott," she says, and it's a low, warning growl. Her alpha voice.

She needn't have bothered: Scott's immobilized,staring in horror at Ennis. "I—"

"What?" Deucalion's laugh chills Stiles. "Did you think the _werewolf fairy_ flitted about distributing alpha status to good boys and girls? Alpha powers _come from_ somewhere. Some _one_. Perhaps no one physically died to give you yours, but they did once _belong_ to someone else." Deucalion takes two rapid steps forward to stand in front of Scott. "You're _wasting_ them, and it disgusts me."

"I'm not—" Scott starts.

Deucalion steps back and gestures at Ethan. "Get them out of here."

"Gladly," Ethan snarls. He jerks his head toward the door, and Deaton, at this point the only one functioning properly, opens it. Laura herds a crestfallen Scott out after him.

Stiles, perhaps unwisely, brings up the rear. In the doorway, he pauses and looks at the Adams pack. A thousand cutting last words crowd his tongue, but in the end, bewilderment's stronger than rage. " _Why_?" He means a thousand different things, and he wants Deucalion to answer all of them—and none.

Deucalion snorts. "You play chess, yes?"

"Not well, but, yeah."

"Then you know the importance of sacrificing the occasional pawn." Deucalion turns away with such a flourish that Stiles imagines a giant cape swirling around him. Stiles turns and storms out of the house, running to catch up with the others. The thing is, he isn't sure which question Deucalion has answered.

They _cannot_ get out of this place quickly enough.

Ethan leads them toward an inside corner room with a boarded-over window. Stiles shivers. From what he can guess of the house's layout, this is the room's sole window. If it's broken and boarded, then not only does Anna have no natural light, but she also has to expend magical energy on keeping warm—energy better used elsewhere.

The room Ethan leads them to meets UN requirements for humane captivity, and that's all the good Stiles can say about it. It's tiny—barely big enough for the rusty cot with its thin, dingy mattress, the mold-speckled pedestal sink, and the composting toilet (because they may be kidnappers and torturers, but they're _Californian_ kidnappers and torturers).

At least three days' worth of plates and bowls teeter beside the door. The toilet looks clogged. And even Stiles' normal human nose picks up the scents of sweat, old food, and human waste. They're hardly acceptable conditions for a prisoner of war and certainly not for a scared teenager.

"Scared" barely covers Anna's expression and body language. She's moved the cot away from the wall and wedged herself in between. She's a slip of a thing: short, small-boned, delicate features. She's pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, and her head tilts forward to hide her face behind a curtain of long, blond hair.

She looks so _young_ , and she reminds Stiles of Claud, who used to huddle like this during storms, or after nightmares, or when she was fighting with Erica. A pang of heartache rips at Stiles, followed by a flash of rage. He hears three voices growling; after a moment, he realizes one of them is his. He rounds on Ethan. "Get out."

Ethan smirks and leans against the door jamb, crossing his arms. "Not a chance."

"You know we're taking her," Laura says impatiently. "It's not like we're going to sneak her out the back without your knowledge."

Ethan flashes his eyes at her, which, _really_? What good does that do him? "I have my orders."

Stiles snorts but turns his back on Ethan, switching his attention to Anna. "Hi, Anna," he says softly. "I'm Stiles, and this is Alan. Is it okay if we touch you?"

Anna flinches toward the wall. Stiles backs away, hands up. "Okay," he says quickly. "It's fine if you don't want us to, but we're Druids, too." He raises his arm to show her his tattoo. If anything, Anna seems _more_ terrified. A crawling feeling prickles along Stiles' spine.

"Anna," Deaton says, "I'm a doctor." Ethan snorts. "May I examine you? I promise I won't touch you unless I find an injury."

Anna stares at Deaton from behind her hair and then nods, quick and sharp, like she has to make a decision fast before someone takes it away.

Stiles isn't sure how Deaton intends to examine Anna while her ratty, unwashed t-shirt and sweatpants cover so much of her skin. But Deaton seems unconcerned as his gaze passes over her body, critical and detached. Stiles scans her aetheric bodies and finds them weak but undamaged, thank fuck. Anna's looking at years of therapy, but at least she doesn't have to face the stabbing, _shrieking_ sense of loss that would've come with having her magic severed. No twelve-step program on the planet helps with that withdrawal.

After a long moment, Deaton leans back. "You'll be all right, physically," he says, "though I urge you to see your own doctor once you're settled in at home."

"Home?" Anna asks with heartbreaking hopefulness.

Laura steps forward, smiling gently. "Yes, if you'll let us. Will you let us bring you back to your grove, Anna? They've been worried about you."

Anna curls up tighter. "I messed up," she tells the floor. "They'll be so mad at me."

"No," Laura says. Her hand reaches toward Anna but doesn't touch, just radiates warmth toward her. "They asked us to find you and bring you back. They miss you. They love you."

Anna breaks. Whatever force has kept her emotions in check vanishes, and she sobs, great, wracking motions that rock her whole body.

The others stand in silence, giving her the space she needs, until Ethan says, "God, you are the most touchy-feely New Age pussies. Do whatever you want with her." He pushes off the jamb and flees toward the main door.

Scott rolls his eyes, but Stiles doesn't need the confirmation that Ethan was lying. Big, bad wolfie can't handle crying. Stiles wants to call him back for the pleasure of punching his face.

When Anna's sobs subside, she stands (a slow, shaky process, but they hang back and let her do it for herself) and lets Laura take her arm and lead her from the room. As Stiles follows behind with Deaton, he keeps his eye out for a surprise attack from the Adamses. It would be like Deucalion to launch an assault as they're making their getaway. But they reach the car without incident—if you don't count the twenty terrifying seconds when Laura can't find the keys. Easy.

 _Too_ easy. Sure, the wolves flashed their eyes at each other, and Deucalion threatened and roared, but they put up no fight, no serious resistance to their visitors waltzing out with their prisoner.

Stiles turns toward the house one last time. A curtain twitches in a front window, but otherwise, everything seems still. They don't care that someone's taking away their toy. And _that_ is the scariest thought Stiles has had all night, because they're the sort of people who can only be gracious about a loss if they expect to get something better out of allowing it. Stiles doesn't know what that "something better" is, and the lump in his gut tells him he won't be happy when he _does_ know.

Once everyone's in the car, Deaton pulls a bottle of water and another of ibuprofen out of his bag and holds them out to Anna. She shakes her head violently and cowers against her seat, whimpering.

"They're painkillers," Deaton says. "Ibuprofen." Anna continues to cry softly, so Deaton takes back the pills and holds out the water. "Better?" he asks.

Anna sizes up the bottle like she's checking it for bombs (or, shit, drugs or poison, god _damn_ these assholes). Her hand darts out lightning-fast, grabbing the bottle and spiriting it away somewhere in her clothes. She turns her face toward the window in a clear statement of "done with you."

Stiles' head thunks against the headrest. Fury burns in him, making his legs judder and his fingers twitch. But where to _put_ it? Scott and Laura are keeping their packs apprised of events as they happened. The Adams pack lives in Shasta county, so he can't call Dad and Jordan to have them slam the Adamses into a reinforced jail cell and "accidentally" forget about them for an hour or fifty.

Part of him longs to call Erica and Boyd and beg them to let him talk to Claud. For all that Anna's only seven years his junior, in her current state she seems childlike and fragile in a way that makes Stiles burn with surprisingly sharp anger. Anna has parents, sisters, friends who love her, who Deucalion and his pack ripped her away from. Stiles longs for his own daughter, to wrap her tight in his arms and whisper empty promises about how no one will ever hurt her.

But Claud's nine, and bedtime's a battle already. She needs sleep more than she needs to be a crutch in Stiles' latest breakdown.

The rest of him wants to call Derek. To hear his voice go soft with concern while he promises Stiles, even if it's a lie, that everything will be all right.

He won't do that, either. He can't risk it until he knows what Erica's told Derek about where Stiles is and what he's doing. Stiles fails at secrecy at the best of times; having to prevaricate with Derek while he's tired and heartsick will end in catastrophe.

Stiles sighs and leans his head against the cool glass of the window. As the car zips toward the diner where they've agreed to meet Anna's grovemates, and Anna drifts into restless sleep, Stiles resigns himself to waiting and keeping watch. He just wishes he knew what he's watching _for_.


	5. Quid Nunc?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I reject the canon reality of Paige's death and substitute my own.
> 
>  **Trigger warning** for discussion of euthanasia.
> 
> Mind the rating boost here: sex scene ahoy!
> 
> Thanks as always to [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi) for the beta work.

**_October 16, 2021_ **

Erica lays down six twos, and half the table groans and drinks. She grins wickedly, but her voice is sweetness and light as she sing-songs, "Humans drink two!"

"Screw you, Reyes," Allison grumbles as she and Danny down their second shots.

"It's not about you," Erica assures her. "I just want Danny to lose."

Derek has never played such a ruthless game of Asshole. Erica's winning—of course—with Danny running a close second because he turns out to be a devious SOB. Derek blames the dimples. They let Danny get away with a lot.

As he sets down his empty shot glass and reaches for the wolfsbane rum to refill it, Derek thinks he hears Laura's engine rumbling at the end of the driveway and coming closer. He knows he hasn't imagined it when every wolf at the table turns toward the door.

Danny snickers. "Oh, if Pavlov could see this." He high-fives Allison and then winces as someone, probably Cora, kicks him under the table.

"Okay, for those of us _not_ blessed with super-hearing?" Allison prompts.

"They're back," Isaac says. He tilts his head, listening intently. "Three in the car." That's what they've expected (in the 36 hours they've been gone, Laura's updates have swung from hilarious to deplorable and back, including the tersely baffled, "Deaton staying w/Anna's grove another night wtf"), so Isaac's confirmation settles a lot of nerves.

"Is everyone okay?" Allison asks, biting her lip.

Cora rubs comforting circles on Allison's back. "Their heartbeats sound strong," she says. "Nobody badly injured that I can tell." Allison slumps in relief. She rests her head on Cora's shoulder and keeps a lazy watch on the door.

Derek's still finding his way around the complex web of relationships and connections that links the members of these packs. Allison's continued concern for Scott, although they've been broken up for years, does credit to the loyalty he inspires. Derek's still not sure he likes it, given that Allison's now dating his sister.

When the front door opens, Derek jumps to his feet and moves forward on instinct. Laura's first through the door, but Stiles is right behind her, swaying ominously. Derek reaches forward and tugs the strap of Stiles' satchel, lifting it from his shoulder and lowering it to the floor. "Hey," he says quietly. He scans Stiles' face for injuries but sees only exhaustion.

"Derek," Stiles murmurs, a wan smile struggling to stay in place.

"How're you feeling?" he asks. He doesn't _need_ to; thick layers of anger and sadness lie heavy and sour over Stiles' usual scent. But he's spent enough time around humans to know that most of them like to be asked rather than read.

Stiles scowls. "Disgusted," he says. "People aren't very nice. Even people who are actually wolves."

Derek chuckles at Stiles' slight incoherence. He slips around to Stiles' side and rests a hand at the small of his back to steer him toward the couch. Stiles yields easily, going where Derek leads with docile trust. Derek slides Stiles' jacket off his shoulders and helps him turn his graceless flop onto the couch into a controlled fall.

Derek hears a quiet snort and looks up. Isaac points his chin, and Derek looks around to note that he's doing for Stiles what Jordan's doing for Laura and Kira for Scott. Derek holds Isaac's gaze defiantly while he crouches at Stiles' feet and starts untying his black Chucks.

"So," Derek says, keeping his tone light and his attention focused on the shoes, "You have a little magic, huh?"

Stiles coughs out a breath that's probably supposed to be a laugh. He tips over against the arm of the couch. "No regrets, dude. I freaked you and Dewey out enough by being Scott's stepbrother. Who knows what you would've done if I'd told you I'm his emissary, too."

Derek slides off Stiles' second shoe and both socks and sets everything under the end table. "Fair enough," he admits. He stands, ignoring the squawk when he pulls Stiles' feet up with him. He drops onto the couch and turns Stiles by his feet until his long legs drape over Derek's lap. Stiles raises his eyebrows in a clear question, which Derek answers by kneading his thumbs into the ball of Stiles' foot.

Stiles' surprised inhale resolves into a long, throaty groan on the exhale. Derek's breath catches, and he shifts the foot in his lap so it won't brush Derek's sudden semi. He's been teetering on the edge; as Stiles' tension recedes and his normal scent reasserts itself, Derek finds himself leaning into it, as if he could crawl inside it. Now he has Stiles' calloused skin under his hands and his porn star noises in his ears. Only the presence of the rest of their packs keeps Derek from asking if Stiles wants to move to the bedroom.

Erica and Boyd settle onto the arms of the couch Derek and Stiles are sharing. "So," Erica says, and her voice holds a sharp edge Derek's never heard before, "do we need to kill these assholes or what?"

Stiles gives a weary laugh and flaps his hand at her. "Dude," he says, exhaustion spilling around every letter, "we're doing this _once_. Wait 'til everyone's back, and then you can grill me all you want."

Derek glances around. He's been so wrapped up in Stiles he hasn't noticed that Cora, Isaac, Danny, Allison, and Lydia have disappeared. He extends his hearing and finds them in the kitchen.

Erica growls quietly, displeased with Stiles' deflection. Boyd catches her eye over Stiles' and Derek's heads, and whatever silent communications passes between them settles her. Boyd scans Stiles critically. "You okay, man?" he asks. "You look wiped out, and your heartbeat's weirder than usual."

Stiles fixes a weak glare on Boyd. "When everyone's back," he says again.

A few minutes later, the others return to the living room, several trays of mugs and a couple large bowls between them. Something in Derek cringes when Allison holds out a mug to him, but he can only listen to Cora's "Allison is not Kate" speech so many times before his desire to maintain family harmony outweighs his reluctance to accept an unknown drink from an Argent. He takes the mug with a muttered word of thanks and has to admit, when Allison's "You're welcome" comes with a bright, dimpled smile, that there's a lot to like in this woman.

Although he can practically _touch_ the tension in the room, everyone holds their tongues until they've finished their tea (Danny's Savage Beast blend, of course) and put a good dent in the popcorn. Laura sets her mug on the coffee table and leans forward, fingers steepled in front of her mouth. "Okay, first off, where are the kids?"

Derek blinks at the seeming non sequitur, but Stiles is nodding like mad, and now he notices Scott's splaying his hand across the swell of Kira's abdomen. Derek's hackles rise (a dog joke, but an accurate description). Are their packs' kids in danger from these assholes?

Stiles squeezes Derek's hand. "They're _fine_ ," he says, making a "you could've led with that" face at Laura. "The Adams pack, they're—" He huffs. "A little help, guys?"

"They didn't threaten anything," Scott says, "or really imply anything. They're just creepy and amoral, and you'll want to hug your kids when we're done." Derek knows that's supposed to reassure them. It makes him more nervous.

"The kids are at John and Melissa's," Kira says. "They've been there all afternoon."

Slowly and methodically, Laura, Stiles, and Scott lay out their misadventures with the Adams pack. The rest of them have been getting pieces of it from Laura and Scott's updates, but hearing the story all at once gives it a gut-clenching, relentless immediacy.

When Stiles says, voice gentle, body turned so he can look Derek in the eye, that Ennis has become Deucalion's beta, Derek can only sit in frozen silence, staring unseeing in Stiles' direction, while vivid flashes of Paige's death spool out before his defenseless eyes. He recovers from that blow in time to hear Scott start to talk, in unsteady but determined tones, hand clutching Kira's in what must be a painful grip, about how interested Deucalion seems in the packs' children, especially his and Kira's.

"These . . . these—they want our _kids_?" Even Erica's famed inventiveness with profanity falls helpless in the face of this threat. Her hand is clenched in a fist near her throat, and Derek knows she's clutching the heart-shaped pendant, set with her children's birthstones, that she hasn't removed since Boyd gave it to her for her last birthday.

"I wish I knew _what_ they want," Scott says, his fingers spasming around Kira's.

"But they had the emissary," Danny says with a frown. "Was she an excuse to get you there?"

"I think so," Stiles says. "I mean, they were blatantly abusing her power. And they snapped their teeth and snarled when we said we were taking her. But in the end, they let her go without any _real_ fight. I think you're right, Danny; they needed a reason to get us there, so they created one. The fact that they got a captive magic-user out of it for a few months was icing on the cake for them."

"That poor girl," Allison murmurs.

"What do we do?" Isaac asks. "About any of it."

"As soon as Melissa and the sheriff get here with the kids," Jordan says, "he and I will start working on a kidnapping case for the Shasta County Sheriff to move forward with."

"All emissaries belong to that one organization, right?" Danny asks Stiles. "The one you're always pissing off?"

Derek raises his eyebrows, though he's not surprised to learn that Stiles has trouble with authority.

Stiles gives Derek a look that dares him to make something of it before he nods at Danny. "The Druid High Order," he says. "They're dickfaces."

"Yes," Lydia says, "but protecting emissaries is their job. Regardless of what you feel about them, they'd want to know if an emissary had been abducted and held captive for three months."

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, but something happens to his scent and his heartbeat.

Derek touches his hand. "What is it?"

"It's—" He shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"Did one of them say something?" Jordan asks. He's got to be looking for _anything_ that'll help the cops nail these bastards, no matter how unlikely that is. Folks involved with the supernatural have a habit of slipping through the fingers of human law enforcement.

"It's more what they _didn't_ say," Stiles replies carefully. "They taunted us with shit about how weak humans are and how we couldn't do anything for Anna if they didn't allow it. But they didn't take a single shot at the Order. Like they knew Scott and Laura would hear something in their heartbeats if they said anything."

Danny leans over and squeezes Stiles' knee. "I'll start looking into the Order first thing tomorrow," he promises.

Stiles smiles at him, weary but grateful. "Thanks, Danny."

"If any of them has so much as _sneezed_ in the vicinity of a computer, I'll find out about it."

Laura's twisting her empty mug back and forth on the palm of her hand. "We need to increase security on the kids," she says. Everyone else nods.

Part of Derek feels like they're being paranoid. They're _werewolves_ , for crying out loud, and the ones who aren't are a kitsune and a banshee and a phoenix and an emissary. The only "ordinary" humans in the room are Allison and Danny, who can more than pull their weight in keeping the packs safe. But he doesn't want to be the one to oppose extra security if it turns out paranoia is warranted.

"By the end of the week," Laura continues, "I want a list of every place where our kids spend time. Danny can look into what security's already in place."

"The duplex has a CalSecure 2020," Kira says.

"No good," Stiles says, shaking his head. "That's what the Adamses have. They'll know its weaknesses."

"CalSecure introduced a newer model at the beginning of the year," Danny says. "It has the supernatural deterrents I put in the first one, plus a few new goodies. We'll get one for this house, too."

"However many we need, the Hale pack will pay for them," Laura says in her best "and don't fight me" tone. Derek sees scowls among the McCall pack, but it's no secret that the Hales are better off financially. If Laura chooses to use that money to protect their children, that's not a hill the McCall pack wants to die on.

They hash out more safety precautions, mostly about making make sure the kids aren't running around town unsupervised. Stiles and Lydia (who _does_ have "a little magic") have a conversation about magical options that goes over Derek's head. Jordan promises the full support of the Beacon County Sheriff's department. "The others don't know about the supernatural aspect," he says, "but tell them someone's threatened the sheriff's granddaughter, and they'll volunteer to walk into hell and back, if it'll keep her safe."

As Erica, Isaac, and Cora start debating the differences between supernatural law and human law, Derek remembers: "I have a meeting with Alpha McCoy in three weeks," he says.

"Everything okay?" Boyd asks.

"Yeah." Derek smiles. "Just, you know, moved cross-country, want a lawyer in the same time zone, that kind of meeting. But I can ask about our options under supernatural law."

Laura nods. "Do it. Deucalion can act like the Treaty of Vancouver doesn't apply to him, but we can use its provisions to smack the bastard down."

The meeting winds down with everyone knowing their assignments. Jordan goes to the kitchen to call Melissa and the sheriff to bring the kids home. Everyone else sits and looks at each other, unsure what to do now.

Lydia blows out a sharp breath and stands. "As much as I love your children," she says, "I have a lot of energy to burn right now." She cocks her head at Allison. "Velvet?"

Allison's sharing an armchair with Cora, in a configuration that makes Derek think of a caduceus, with Allison as the pole and Cora as the snake. Allison wraps her arms tighter around Cora and shakes her head. "Not tonight," she says. "I need to be here."

The strangest combination of scents rolls off Lydia—disappointment, compassion, annoyance, and is that envy? "Of course," she says, smiling a bit flatly. "Next time." She turns and starts to walk out of the room.

Whispers and scuffling sound to Derek's left. He turns and catches Isaac and Danny in a conversation of eyebrows and elbow pokes. Isaac rolls his eyes and calls, "Lydia? We'll go with you."

Lydia pauses. "Really?" Derek thinks she's trying for arch but hits lonely instead.

" _Just_ to dance," Danny insists as he levers himself off Isaac's lap. "And we'll probably leave early."

"Like the boring old marrieds you are," Lydia teases, but her tone holds real affection. "It's a good thing you're both still hot," she says. It sounds like "thank you."

Derek joins in the chorus of good-nights, though he's not sure what's going on. "What's Velvet?" he asks once he hears Lydia's Lexus turn out of the long driveway and onto the road.

Stiles, Jordan, and Erica grin wickedly; Scott blushes brick red; everyone else rolls their eyes. "It's a sex club in Beacon City," Erica tells him.

Derek's eyes widen. Beside him, Stiles' eyebrows wiggle absurdly. Scott's muffling laughter in Kira's shoulder.

Derek licks his lips, searching for a way of phrasing his question that doesn't make him sound like a body-policing dick. When he realizes that _every_ way of phrasing the question makes him sound like a body-policing dick, he smiles vaguely and says, "That's . . . nice?"

Laura and Jordan snort. Loudly.

"It's okay, Derek," Cora says. "I'm ace. Lydia's boyfriend lives in London. Everyone's happy with this arrangement."

"I'm sure Lydia could get you a guest pass," Laura says.

Derek stares at her. He cannot _believe_ she would say that in front of Stiles. She _knows_ how badly he wants things between them to work out. Why would she—

Because she's Laura. And he's standing smack in the middle of her biggest blind spot.

Derek presses his lips together and then turns. "Hey, Cora, how's your research going?"

Scott and Erica groan. Erica leaps up and stalks toward the kitchen. "Now you've done it," she growls. "I need something stronger than tea."

Cora looks speculatively at Derek. "You want to know about my research?" she asks, in the cautious tone of someone who's fallen for this ruse before.

He does. Over the years she's fed him bits and pieces, but they've never sat down and talked it through. It's fascinating stuff, likely to change a lot of what the supernatural world knows about itself, somehow presented in a way that makes its supernatural aspects invisible to human audiences.

A snorting sound comes from Derek's left, and he starts to chide Stiles for his attitude when he realizes it was a snore. Stiles is asleep. Derek smiles fondly at him and says, "Maybe not now. But soon."

Cora gives Derek one of those piercing looks that sees far more than he'd like her to. Then she nods. "I'm holding you to that."

Derek nudges Stiles, who flails awake in a flurry of limbs that almost knocks him off the couch. A chuckle goes around the room. Stiles tries to glare, but he looks too sleep-rumpled and adorable for it to be effective.

Derek smiles at him. "You're had a rough couple days. Maybe you should head to bed."

Stiles sits up, scowling and rubbing his eyes. "Claud—" he starts.

"Melissa and the Sheriff have all six kids," Jordan says. "And your dad says Andrew and Vivi are in the sulks. It'll be a while."

"At least get ready for bed, dude," Scott says. "We'll send Claud up when she gets here."

Stiles looks like he's going to argue until a jaw-cracking yawn bursts out of his mouth. He swears at the end of it and scowls as though everyone and everything in the room has betrayed him. "Promise?"

"As soon as we're done smothering her so hard she wants to pretend we've never met," Erica amends.

Stiles laughs. "Yeah. That sounds right." He leans way too close to Derek and waggles his eyebrows in what Derek thinks is supposed to be a seductive manner. "You gonna tuck me in, Mr. Hale?" he asks.

Derek swallows. Sleep-rough is a _really_ good sound on Stiles. He thinks Laura and Scott are openly laughing at him, but it's hard to hear over the blood roaring in his ears. Forcing a laugh, Derek shoves Stiles' face away and stands. "If that's what it takes," he says. He reaches down a hand and hauls Stiles to his feet. For a minute they lean into each other's spaces, Stiles' gaze searing despite his obvious weariness.

"I need to go upstairs," Cora says, breaking the spell.

"You'll miss the kids." Laura's pouting slightly.

"I know, but I've reached my limit for people of all sizes. I'd better bow out before I snap."

Cora and Allison say their goodnights and head upstairs. Derek likes that Allison goes when Cora needs to, without Cora having to ask.

Derek herds Stiles toward the stairs. He's a strange mix of stubborn and floppy, insisting he can do it himself but not actually able to do so. Getting up the first three stairs feels like it takes five minutes. It doesn't help that he pauses several times to stare into Derek's eyes and say, "You're pretty."

The other wolves snicker in the living room—and Cora's doing the same from the top of the stairs. Derek looks up to glare at her and finds Allison leaning against the wall, smiling down at them. "Get his arm around your shoulders," she suggests.

Derek freezes. Putting Stiles' arm around his shoulders will put him in _very_ close proximity, and Derek's not sure he can handle that. But at this rate, the kids will be here before they can get up the stairs. Derek swallows and takes Stiles' arm, guiding it around his shoulders.

"Whoa, hey," Stiles says, enormous amber eyes staring at him. "You feel nice." He blinks. "You got close."

Derek grits his teeth and starts hauling. It's better now, faster, and they reach the top in a more reasonable time. "Thank you," he tells Allison.

She runs a hand through Stiles' hair, a gesture Derek tries not to be jealous of. "I dated Scott for three years," she says. "I got to be an expert at pouring their butts into bed at four a.m."

Stiles lifts his head and looks around. "Allie!" He reaches out and pokes her arm. "Allie, you're amazing. Do you know that? You should know that."

Smiling, Allison removes Stiles' hand. "Yeah, I know it, Stiles."

"Good." He glances around again and, spotting Cora, squints menacingly at her (at least, Derek thinks it's supposed to be menacing. It mostly looks squinty). "Your girlfriend is amazing," he says. "You should tell her that. Every day."

Cora doesn't bother responding, just rolls her eyes and disappears inside her room. Allison shrugs and walks after her, leaving Derek alone with Stiles. Which is when he realizes he doesn't know what room Stiles is going to.

With prodding, Stiles directs them toward the second guest suite from the stairs. Unlike the pack's suites, the guest suites lack a front sitting area. The door opens directly onto Stiles' bedroom. It's decorated in soothing dark blues and grays and is overwhelmed with books. The queen bed against the far wall dominates Derek's awareness, crowding out other inputs. It would be easy—a few nudges and he could follow Stiles right down onto it.

Two cars pull into the driveway.

Derek pulls reluctantly away from Stiles. Stiles whimpers, low in his throat, and Derek crosses to the bed and makes a big production of turning down the covers. It leaves Stiles swaying dangerously in the middle of the room, but it's safer than continuing to stand in the scent and the heat of him.

When Derek turns back, Stiles is trying to wrestle out of his blue plaid overshirt. Derek crosses back and starts sliding it off Stiles' broad shoulders. The gesture is paternal in origin; he's done it a hundred times for Dewey, as he's sure Stiles has for Car. But once he has Stiles' arms and back under his hands, the touch becomes a declaration of desire, a catalogue of things Derek wants from Stiles. Derek pauses, leans in close. He listens to the pounding of Stiles' heart, presses his nose behind Stiles' ear to inhale the intoxicating scent of his growing arousal.

Stiles groans and sags into Derek like he's being pulled by an irresistible force. Derek's fingers drift to the hem of Stiles' Death Star topiary t-shirt. The material is soft from years of washing, and he rubs over it in slow circles, dipping under to touch the skin of Stiles' lower back.

With a noise that sounds dragged from the lowest depths of his soul, Stiles pulls away. "I—" He stops and clears his throat. "I've got it from here, thanks," he says. He gives Derek a wry, apologetic smile.

Derek returns it and backs toward the door. "Rest," he says. "We'll send Car up soon."

"Thanks," Stiles says again. He looks like he wants to say more. His heartbeat's jackrabbiting, and his face is making five conflicting microexpressions at once. He looks as gutted as Derek feels, and the months until June feel like an impossible wait. Derek flees before he can do anything stupid.

Downstairs, chaos has taken over. Derek hears Dewey before he sees her, telling someone a story about a "stegocorn," a unicorn with dorsal armor plates. It may also be pink.

Car's perched on Boyd's lap, holding a sleeping Cory in her arms and looking like she's fighting not to laugh at something Boyd's said. Erica's sharp yell of, "Verna V Reyes-Boyd, get back here _this instant_!" comes immediately before Vivi slams the back door, and two seconds later, Derek barely avoids getting bowled over by Andrew, who charges up the stairs as quickly as he can while still obeying the "no running inside" rule. He spots the back of a man in a green jacket, hunched in a position universally recognizable as "helping a small child out of their coat" and figures Owen's behind him.

Derek starts jogging down the stairs and then slows, fighting off dread, when he realizes the man must be Sheriff Stilinski, who he's heard so much about but never met. Sheriff Stilinski, who is Stiles' father and who carries a spare magazine of wolfsbane bullets wherever he goes.

"Daddy!" Dewey, coat hanging off her by one sleeve, breaks free from Melissa and runs across the room to Derek, dodging every hand that tries to intercept or slow her.

"Dewey, walk!" Derek says sternly. Dewey pouts but slows, so Derek will take the win. He sweeps Dewey into a hug as soon as she's in arm's range. "Thank you, monkey," he says. He tweaks Dewey's nose, making her giggle.

Without a word of greeting, Dewey launches back into the story of the stegocorn, as though Derek and not Melissa had heard the beginning and knows exactly what she's talking about. As near as Derek can make out, the stegocorn and its best friend, a poisonous butterfly named Henrietta ("But she's not a killer, Daddy, she's mis . . . misum . . ." "Misunderstood?" "Yeah! That.") are having an adventure in Poland, which, owing to something she misheard Stiles say, Dewey believes to be the cheese capital of Europe.

Derek half listens, making appropriate noises at appropriate pauses. He tugs Dewey's coat the rest of the way off, avoids Owen, who's lumbering around the house pretending to be a tyrannosaurus, and keeps half an ear on Stiles to make sure he's going to sleep. Under the coat, Dewey is wearing a white button-down, a pink argyle sweater-vest, and a clip-on purple bowtie. Derek steers his mind firmly away from any resemblance between the outfit and the usual workday attire of anyone he might know.

Derek is hanging the jacket on its designated hook when the tale of the stegocorn trails off. Dewey's stories don't end so much as run out of steam. "That's great, Dewey," he says. "You can tell me more about Stegocorn and Henrietta another time, okay?"

Dewey starts to say "Okay, Daddy" or something like it, but exhaustion catches up with her mid-word, and she trails off into a yawn, burying her face against Derek's leg. Derek grins. He feels eyes on him and looks up to see Sheriff Stilinski watching from the kitchen archway. Derek nods.

The sheriff crosses the room. By the time he arrives, Tyrannosaurus Owen is attached to his leg, and he doesn't seem to mind. He holds out his hand. "John Stilinski," he says.

Derek shakes. Sheriff Stilinski's grip is _strong_ for a human, and Derek wonders if it's always like this, or if he's adding extra oomph to make a point. "Derek Hale. It's good to meet you, sir."

"You too, son. I feel like I know you already, Stiles talks about you so much. But it's nice to meet you for real."

"Thanks for looking after the kids today. Did Dewey behave?"

Sheriff Stilinski laughs and gives a fondly befuddled look Derek's seen on a lot of people after they meet Dewey for the first time. "This kid," he says. He shakes his head. "She's got a hell of an imagination. I hope you're encouraging it."

"Yeah." Derek strokes a hand over Dewey's head. "One of the best things about her. I heard about the stegocorn."

"You'll probably hear about velocimermaids and centaur sheriffs later."

Derek gives a startled laugh. "Centaur sheriffs?"

"In the Wild West. I don't know; that one kinda made sense to me. They can chase bad guys across the frontier without worrying about their horses getting tired." They grin at each other. Then Sheriff Stilinski hooks his fingers into his belt loops and taps the place where his service weapon would sit, if he were wearing it. "You seem like a good guy, Derek," he says, "and I like your kid. But I like _my_ kid and my grandkid more. You get what I'm saying?"

"John!" Melissa appears at the sheriff's elbow and pinches his side. "Are you threatening Derek? They love him in Interpreter Services; they'd be very upset if you killed him."

"Now why would I kill him?" the sheriff asks, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "A man dies once, but he can suffer forever."

Derek's head jerks.

Ignoring her husband, Melissa smiles at Derek. "Hey, Derek. You and I are going to compare calendars."

He blinks at her. "We are?"

She nods decisively. "We are."

"Why?"

"To figure out when you and Dewey can come over for dinner."

 _This_ is why he moved back to Beacon Hills. He's missed family. Community. Pack _._ They were so isolated in New York. Being back in Hale territory feels like breathing free after holding his breath for an hour. His blood carries a connection to this land that tugged at him all the years he was gone. He thinks it tugged at Dewey, too, without either of them realizing it.

Scott's pack has been an unexpected bonus, an extra circle of friends, like the motley mess of extended family that had sometimes descended on Beacon Hills on its way to pack councils in Portland or LA.

The motley mess of extended family that had been here the night Kate Argent had finally bested Uncle Peter in their reckless battle, and the cost had been ten lives—including Peter's.

Tears prickle in Derek's eyes, and he blinks himself back to the present before they can fall. Even in her sleepy state, Dewey must smell his tears; she whines and burrows in, clutching the leg of Derek's jeans so tightly it hurts. He takes the pain of it, lets it ground him. He blinks hard and forces a smile for Melissa. "Yeah," he says. "Let's do that."

"All right, where's my kid?" Sheriff Stilinski looks around. "I haven't given him crap in _days_."

"He was exhausted, so we made him go to the guest suites to sleep. But we promised we'd send Ca— _Claud_ up as soon as we could."

Across the room, Car looks up at Boyd. "Papa, can I go?"

Boyd kisses her cheek. "Go on. Don't bother him, though. He needs his sleep."

Car hands Cory to Boyd and crosses the room. "LOVE YOU, MAMA! " she bellows. Derek winces and is grateful that the pack chose top-of-the-line soundproofing for the guest suites.

"CLAUDIA, DON'T SHOUT INSIDE!" Erica hollers back.

As Car stomps past, all graceless enthusiasm, Dewey lifts her head and makes sleepy grabby hands at her. "Car," she mutters, more asleep than awake. The sheriff snorts, and Melissa laughs softly. The tips of Derek's ears heat up. The nickname sounds ridiculous with the kid's grandparents standing in front of him.

"Hey, Dewdrop," Car says, and, okay, apparently the urge to bestow awful nicknames is genetic. "I'm gonna go bug Tatuś. Want to come with me?"

Dewey turns wide, excited green eyes up at Derek. "Can I, Daddy?" she asks, voice shaking with excitement.

"You can go up for a while," Derek says,  "but be _nice_ to Mr. Stilinski, and leave as soon as he tells you to. The past two days have been rough for him. He needs rest."

The second half of the statement lost in excitement over the first, Dewey jumps away from Derek and grabs Car's outstretched hand. "Thanks Daddy bye!" she calls as Car hauls her away.

Sheriff Stilinski starts walking toward the door. "We've had a long couple days, too. And some of us have an early shift tomorrow."

Melissa grins. "That'll be terrible for you," she says with mock sympathy.

They say their goodbyes and leave. Within ten minutes, Scott and Kira follow, promising to keep in touch about the Adams situation. Jordan, Boyd, and Derek tidy up the main floor while Laura and Erica shift and run the nightly perimeter check.

When they're back, and order's been restored to the downstairs, everyone says goodnight and heads to their rooms. Derek goes into his own suite and pokes his head into Dewey's room, but he isn't surprised to find the bed empty. He goes to the guest suite where he left Stiles and eases the door open slowly to avoid a squeak in the hinges.

Warmth and longing, breathless and aching, flood him. He know he's being ridiculous. He and Stiles have had one kiss and zero dates, but this . . . this looks like something he would be glad to come home to every night: Stiles lying on his back, sprawled across the bed and snoring softly, Dewey draped on top of him, Car curled into his side.

Maybe Derek stares too long, or too intensely, because Stiles stirs, amber eyes struggling open to meet his gaze. "Hey," he murmurs, looking around. "Oh. I guess I didn't dream that part."

Car settles in deeper, but Dewey lifts her head to glare at Stiles before dropping it again. "Stop _moving,_ Mr. Stilinski," she mutters.

And it should be like a bucket of cold water thrown over him, this reminder that Dewey should _not_ be sleeping on top of her teacher. Only then Stiles rests his hand on Dewey's back to hold her in place, and Derek's instincts clamor to fold this man into his family, into his pack, and never let him leave.

He crosses the room as if pulled,shucking out of his jeans and shirt as quickly as he can manage. His blood sounds like thunder in his ears, a soundtrack to the tide of scent and warmth rolling toward him from the bed. He slips under the covers and curls around Stiles. He settles a hand on Dewey's back and laces his fingers with Stiles'. Under the covers, his foot slides forward to brush against Stiles' leg.

Stiles turns his head and smiles sleepily. His eyelids flutter as he tries to keep them open. He smells like contentment and an easy, mostly banked lust, his earlier anger and worry dissipated. Derek takes a deep breath and feels the coals of his own desire start to smolder. He tilts his face down and kisses the back of Dewey's head. "Hey, monkey," he says softly.

Dewey turns sleepily toward him. "Daddy?" On Stiles' other side, Car raises her head and blinks blearily at them.

"Yeah," Derek whispers. "Time to go to your own bed for the night."

"Okay," Dewey says and then buries her face against Stiles' chest as a yawn overtakes her. "You come, too?"

"I have to stay here and talk to Mr. Stilinski about boring adult stuff," Derek says, ignoring Stiles' quiet huff of laughter. "Car can take you to bed and tuck you in. " He looks at Stiles, who nods. "Maybe she can stay with you tonight."

Car gives both adults a terrifyingly calculating look. Nine seems young to know much about sex, but this _is_ Erica's daughter they're talking about.

Fortunately, Dewey responds so enthusiastically Car kind of _has to_ agree. She helps Dewey off the bed and out the door, and Derek can't decide if the way she sing-songs, " _Good_ night, Derek. _Good_ night, Tatuś," is her being knowing or just obnoxious.

"G'night, sprog," Stiles calls after her. He waits until the door clicks shut behind them, and then a few seconds more, before he groans, "God, Derek, what are we doing?"

Derek reaches for him, tugging him closer. "Something we shouldn't, and I don't care."

Stiles laughs shakily and slides closer until they press together, the contact searing through thin layers of cotton. He lifts his mouth to Derek's. The kiss is slow, unhurried, like Stiles would be content to do just this for the entire night. Derek's body melts against Stiles', and he wraps his arms around Stiles' back, gathering him closer. He could do this all night, too. He could do this every night.

Stiles' hand slips. His fingers brush Derek's tattoo, sending a wave of fire rushing through his body, igniting everything in him. He rolls onto his back, pulling Stiles with him. Stiles squeaks in surprise but holds on and doesn't break the kiss, bracing his elbows on the bed next to Derek's head and absolutely _plundering_ Derek's mouth with his tongue.

Derek groans and thrusts his hips up, desperate for friction. His hands settle under Stiles' t-shirt on his lower back, pinkies brushing the top curve of his ass, and he uses his leverage to pull Stiles against him.

Stiles needs no more encouragement; he gasps into Derek's mouth and rocks down to meet the next thrust.

Their rhythm turns frenzied fast. Derek tries to slow down, because they're adults, damn it, and they deserve better than rutting like teenagers. They still have their clothes on, for Christ's sake. But Derek's _so hard_ and _so close,_ and he can tell Stiles is the same way, hears it in the frantic hitches of his breath and smells it in the drugging scent of lust pouring off of him, thickening with every second.

Derek growls and surges up, bringing them upright, Stiles sitting in his lap. Stiles makes a desperate sound, and his hands scrabble at the waistband of Derek's boxer briefs, shoving them down enough for Derek's cock to spring free. Stiles moans, almost wounded. "Someday I'm putting my mouth all over that," he gasps.

Derek groans as the image consumes his field of vision for an instant, Stiles' pink lips spit-slick and stretched around his cock. He blinks to clear his head and reaches down to shove Stiles' boxers out of the way.  He's a little rough with Stiles' cock in the process, but going by the choked-off yelps Stiles makes, he doesn't mind. "No time," Derek growls.

"No, right, no time. Absolutely agreed." Stiles' hips thrust shallowly, and Derek gives a strangled half-shout at the feeling of heated skin against skin.

For a minute they go back to mindless rutting, even less coordinated now. Derek's dazed by Stiles' scent, can't think, can't make his muscles cooperate. There's heat and friction between them, but it's rough and not enough. He's trying to remember what to do about that when Stiles' hand appears in front of his face, palm forward. "Lick _._ "

Derek grabs the hand and licks a broad stripe up the palm and fingers. But he doesn't let go, holding the hand in his and running his fingers across it, mesmerized by the length and breadth of it.

"Come on, wolfman," Stiles huffs, "there's no point if it's going to get dry again."

 _Wolfman, huh?_ Derek grins and lets his fangs drop enough to prick gently into the heel of Stiles' hand before he licks his way up again, tiny licks this time, between fangs that sometimes scrape skin. Stiles' hips jerk and shudder helplessly against him.

"Oh-ho, you kinky bastard, you're into that, aren't you?" Stiles gasps out, and another wave of pure heat floods Derek's body at how low and breathless his voice is.

Derek grinds his hips against Stiles'. "Don't think I'm the only one."

Stiles takes his hand back and curls his long, clever fingers around their cocks. Both of them have to stop and groan at the contact, and then Stiles' hand starts moving, fast, sure strokes that twist and squeeze and build. "What else is in the wolf package, huh?" How does Stiles have the brain power for full sentences? Derek extends his claws and draws his hand down Stiles' back, from his shoulder to the top of his ass—a scratch, not enough to draw blood.

Stiles bucks and speeds up his hand, squeezing so tightly it rides that perfect edge between pleasure and pain. "Claws," he pants. "Nice. What else? You want to pin me down with your wolf strength?" Derek flips them easily, bracing himself over Stiles so his hand can still move. Stiles isn't pinned down, but he moans, " _Derek_!" and comes, shaking and gasping, his hand faltering but never stopping as jets of come spurt across them. And oh, shit, it's going to be _seconds_ now, with that concentrated scent in Derek's nose. Stiles laughs, wild and wrecked. "You want to _knot me_?"

Derek _roars_. He comes hard, brain and body sizzling with the pleasure of it, tingling straight down to his toes. Stiles stares at him with blown pupils, gaze flickering between Derek's face and his emptying cock, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Derek groans at the sight, and his idiot dick tries to get back into the game. He flops next to Stiles, buries his face in the crook of Stiles' neck and draws in shuddering breaths of their combined scent, letting it calm his racing heart.

Stiles' hand lands gently on the side of his neck, a daring choice with a werewolf, but then Derek supposes Stiles has to know they've reached that level of trust. Derek lifts his face and tries a smile. Stiles smiles back and squeezes his neck. "Hey. You okay?"

Derek nods helplessly. "Okay" isn't the right word, but it's the socially acceptable one. He leans forward and presses his lips against Stiles' before the flood of other, less acceptable, words pour out of him. Stiles sighs happily and parts his lips, his tongue slipping lazily into Derek's mouth. They kiss each other calm, coming to rest like flotsam washed to shore by a gentle tide.

"Listen," Stiles whispers in to the darkness, "I know this is, like, _the_ worst time for this, and maybe you aren't ready, and I know that—"

"Stiles. It's okay. Say it."

Stiles takes a deep breath. "Given what just happened and what Deucalion said about Ennis' 'infractions,' I think it's time you tell me the full story about your eyes."

The eyes in question fall closed, and Derek hides his face in the crook of Stiles' neck. But he's right. It's time. And maybe it's best here, now, with the dark for concealment and Stiles' warm body for comfort, Stiles' arms wrapped around him with no indication that he's thinking of letting go—ever.

Derek takes a minute to organize his thoughts. The last time he told this story was to Jen, whose reaction was . . . well, it wasn't what he expected. It's been a long time since he talked about any of it. "My first girlfriend," he begins. "Paige. We were 15." He licks his lower lip and plunges in. "Uncle Peter got obsessed with us. He kept trying to convince me that we'd never really be together unless she was a werewolf, too."

"That's such crap!" Stiles protests.

"But Paige had a heart condition. Nothing terminal, just . . . a weakness."

"The bite would've cured it."

"But it gave her a higher risk of rejecting the bite. I wasn't willing to risk it."

"Peter was," Stiles guesses.

"Mom had called a meeting. A bunch of other alphas were in town. Peter found Ennis. He was a new alpha, reckless and out of control and full of bad decisions."

"Yeah, dude, that never changed," Stiles says with a wry snort, and Derek shudders at the image of a smaller, weaker Scott, alone and scared in the woods in the middle of the night, being bitten and turned violently and without consent.

Derek smiles weakly. "I don't know what Peter told him, but the end result was . . ." He swallows and grips Stiles' hand hard in the darkness. Stiles' other hand comes up to cover his, and it gives him enough strength to go on. "By the time I got to her, it was clear she was rejecting the bite."

Memories flash in front of Derek's eyes now, too fast and engulfing to stop. Paige's screams bouncing off the walls of the high school, prolonged and amplified. Racing through the halls from the locker room to the orchestra room at full shifted speed. Colliding with Ennis at the last corner, the alpha lashing at him, four searing claw marks across his chest. Paige gasping on the worn tile floor, viscous black blood oozing from the jagged wound in her side. The putrid smell of decaying flesh, of a life at its end—and the panicked, downed-animal look in Paige's eyes that said she knew it.

Stiles takes one hand from the stack they've made and slides it around Derek's side, drawing him closer. Derek buries his face against Stiles' neck, drawing in deep breaths of Stiles' scent in a desperate attempt to anchor himself, turning enough for Stiles to hear his voice. He hopes Stiles doesn't mind his t-shirt getting wet. "Peter said we had to move her. But I couldn't make her pain worse so she could die in some cellar. In the end, it was too much, and she—" Derek clenches his jaw.

"She asked you to end it," Stiles murmurs, lips pressed against the top of Derek's head.

At first, Derek can only nod. When he finds his voice, he says, "I felt the change in my eyes, and I knew what it meant. At the time I didn't care, but—I know what it does to me. I know other werewolves judge me because of it."

Though probably not harder than he judges himself. Paige had so much potential, so much _life_. She was going to take the world by storm, elevate the position of women in classical music, play on every continent by the time she was thirty. He aches for the loss of those possibilities, the end of that story. They wouldn't have lasted for the long haul—their relationship was a fast-moving summer storm, not a steady spring rain. But what they'd had, while they'd had it, had been so good, and sometimes he mourns that loss, too, the loss of the young, idealistic Derek who loved so easily and believed that love could ever _be_ easy.

"You did the right thing, Derek," Stiles says softly. "You did what you could for her. I . . ." Stiles sighs and scratches his fingernails against Derek's shoulder. "Another day, I'll need to ask a few questions. There are . . . weird things in that story that I think I need to know about. For the packs. But right now we need sleep more than anything else." He ducks his face down so they're looking each other in the eye. "If you think you can." He leans back. "Or you could go back to your room. I mean, obviously you can go back to your room if—"

"Stiles." Derek lifts his top hand and lays a finger over Stiles' lips. Stiles closes his mouth and waits, eyes dark and sparkling. "I want to sleep here. With you."

"Thank god," Stiles says, slumping, "because, dude, I don't think I could've slept a wink knowing you were alone in that big bed over there. Not after all this."

"I wouldn't have, either," Derek admits. He sees that Stiles is slipping back into sleep and longs to follow. But he forces himself to get up, wet a washcloth in the bathroom, and clean and redress them both up as best he can. Stiles mutters a groggy "Thank you" that puts another crack in Derek's resistance.

When Derek comes back to bed, Stiles spends several minutes fussing before he finds a configuration he likes. Derek's surprised to find himself in the little spoon position, but then again he supposes Stiles thinks he's in need of comforting right now. He's more surprised by how good it feels. He's never been a cuddler. He'd gotten used to it with Jen, because she insisted, but he's never chosen it for himself, especially when it's been another guy in the bed. Now he thinks he may have been missing out.  The sure, solid way Stiles' arm curls around his waist, broad, long-fingered hand splayed across his stomach, helps him release the grief and pain that comes from telling Paige's story. He covers Stiles' hand with his own and sinks into the comfort Stiles is offering him.

It's hard, with his emotions raw and his energy fading, to fight against doubt and self-recrimination as they slide in to remind him what a spectacular mess he and Stiles are making of everything. He can only hope they can hold onto the "spectacular" part hard enough that the "mess" won't hurt as much.


	6. Salem, 1693

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning** in this chapter for description of a panic attack.

**_October 17, 2021_ **

Stiles wakes to the sound of giggling. A _lot_ of giggling.

He cracks one eye open and barely holds back a shriek when Vivi's face looms four inches from his own. She laughs uncontrollably, and others join in. 

Stiles takes stock, and several things become apparent. First, he's still in the Hale house guest suite he went to sleep in last night. Second, Derek is still in bed beside him—they're dressed enough to be decent, thank god, but how the hell is Derek sleeping through this? And lastly, and most disturbingly, all five of the ambulatory Hale pack children have piled on top of them. Even Andrew, who literally hates the entire world right now.

Stiles groans and covers his eyes with the back of his hand. "Claudia Alicia Reyes-Boyd, front and center, please," he says.

There's a lot of shuffling around and frantic whispering he doesn't try to hear. He thinks Owen says, "Oooh, you're gonna get it!" but he generally ignores everything Owen says.

He feels Claud resisting the summons, dragging her knees laboriously across the comforter, acting like the others are constantly impeding her motion. Finally she flops on top of him, her small frame squashing his bladder in a way he's eager not to focus on. She fidgets, lacing and unlacing her fingers, fiddling with the collar of Stiles' t-shirt. "Good morning, Tatuś," she says brightly, and, well, he gives her full marks for effort. 

"Good morning, junior G-girl," he says. "Are you the author of my misfortunes?" She stares at him blankly. Stiles sighs. "Was piling on top of us your idea?"

She shrugs. "I mean, kinda?" she says. "Dewey and I woke up and Derek wasn't in his room, so we came to find him."

"Uh-huh, okay, that's good." Inside, he's cursing himself. He can't believe he and Derek slept here all night while their kids were sleeping in Dewey's room. They _have_ to get their shit in order. "And the rest of your pack of ruffians?"

"I'm not a ruffian," Owen announces, "I'm a boy."

"You're not a boy, you're a werenix," Stiles counters. He's been trying to sell Owen and Andrew on the term to describe themselves, but so far it's been a nonstarter.

Beside him, Derek _finally_ stirs. "Stiles?" he mumbles. "What the fu—"

Stiles slaps his hand over Derek's mouth, earning a chorus of giggles. "Little pitchers," he murmurs.

Derek pushes himself up and cranes his neck around to take in the scene. "Jeez," he says, flopping back down. "Where did they come from?"

"Well, Derek," Stiles says, "when a mommy and a daddy share a very special hug—" Derek puts a hand to Stiles' face and shoves him over.

"All right," Derek says over the kids' cacophonous laughter, "up, out, come on." The kids grumble but move. Stiles watches appreciatively as Derek rises smoothly from the bed and stretches—that is a truly impressive amount of muscle on display, and Stiles reels from the memory of being allowed to get his hands on it. Derek glances over sharply, nostrils flaring, and Stiles grins unapologetically. Yeah, he's covered with children and reeking of lust—and he apologizes for nothing. It's best for Derek to figure out now that he's interested in a relationship with one of the crassest men in Beacon Hills.

Derek shakes his head, the corners of his mouth doing interesting things as a sly smile fights a disapproving frown. Then he does this thing with his arm that sweeps half the kids off the bed. Stiles hopes it isn't dependent on werewolf strength, whatever it was, because he _really_ wants to learn how to do it.

Once Derek's thrown on a pair of sweatpants and herded their unexpected guests out of the room, Stiles flops onto his back and drops his arm heavily over his eyes. A smile creeps onto his lips as images from last night flash behind his eyelids.

"Ugh. You're gross."

Stiles does shriek this time, flailing so hard he knocks over the bedside lamp. "Claud!" he yelps, glaring at her.

She laughs and skitters up to the head of the bed, dropping down to lie next to him. He snakes an arm under her back and she cuddles up close. He _gets_ this kid, the way she boomerangs from spiky to cuddly and back, the way she has days she swears she wants to run away from Erica and Boyd to live with him and other days where she yells, "You're not _really_ my dad!" and refuses to have anything to do with him. His own moods were equally unpredictable around her age, and especially after his mom died. He's glad to be able to be here for her while she figures out who she is and what she wants her life to be, and he'll accept whatever affection she'll give him in the meanwhile.

She wrinkles her nose. "You smell like Derek."

"He slept here last night," Stiles says carefully. He knows Claud got "the talk" a few months ago; Erica showed up at the duplex afterward with a bottle of vodka and a demand for his strongest wolfsbane, because, "Fuck it, Stiles, I thought I was one of the cool moms, but I was _not_ ready for her to ask me that shit." But understanding the mechanics of sex and reproduction doesn't automatically equal putting the pieces together when two adults bunk down together for the night.

"Why?"

"For the same reason you and Dewey share a bed sometimes," he says.

Claud gives him a long, searching look, and Stiles forces himself not to squirm. The kid's got magic _and_ enhanced senses, and she's whip-smart and highly observant on top of it. The half-truths and evasions that are most parents' stock in trade won't work on her for much longer. But at last she says, "Okay," and settles down, satisfied with his answer.

Stiles is drifting off when a quiet knock comes on the door, and Derek pokes his head in. "Hey, you two," he says softly. "Jordan's making crêpes."

"Crêpes!" Claud shouts and scrambles off the bed, barely avoiding kneeing Stiles in the junk.

Stiles groans, and Derek laughs, leaning against the doorframe. Stiles flips him off as he slowly sits up. "Laugh it up, buddy. Your day's coming."

"You think it hasn't come a hundred times already? Marco, my one halfway serious relationship since Jennifer, called Dewey's knees and elbows 'nut-seeking missiles.'"

Stiles laughs, even as he's fighting off absurd and unjustified jealousy over this guy Derek was halfway serious about. He pushes to his feet, and they stand there staring at each other. In the light of day, forced to look at each other and face what they've done, the air between them feels heavy and awkward. And yet a sense of _rightness_ fills Stiles, a feeling that, if given all the options in the world, he would still choose to be right here with Derek. He sighs. "We've made everything a mess, haven't we?"

Derek shakes his head. It's not disagreement, more an acknowledgement that neither of them knows how to proceed. "I know this isn't what we had in mind for our one date—"

"Speak for yourself," Stiles grumbles under his breath. He swallows a smile when Derek blushes.

"But it's still . . . well, now we know."

"Yeah," Stiles says, staring helplessly at Derek's face as though he has to memorize it this instant. "Now we know how _awful_ it's going to be to live without." He has a sudden thought and groans loudly, grabbing yesterday's clothes as he stomps toward the bathroom.

"Stiles?" Derek calls after him. "Are you okay?"

Stiles waves as he disappears into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower that still won't hide what he and Derek did last night from a houseful of werewolf noses. "I'm fine. I just _hate_ when Scott's right."

By the time Stiles has showered and dressed, even in yesterday's clothes, he feels more human and less self-pitying. He and Derek made this bed, and now they have to carefully avoid lying anywhere near it until June. But at least now he feels enough like a functional adult to be in the same room with Derek without throwing a temper tantrum at the unfairness of it all or throwing _himself_ at Derek.

There are even crêpes left, which makes his morning brighter.

Stiles passes a gloriously lazy Sunday morning at the Hale house. He supposes he should go home at some point, to put on fresh clothes if nothing else, but he feels an ease here that eludes him at the McCall pack house. Even though that's _his_ home, which he shares with _his_ pack—who are also his best friends in the world—he never feels like he entirely _fits_ there. Here, some pressure lifts off of him. Perversely, that's the reason he doesn't spend as much time here as he'd like; he could easily spend so much time here that he wears out his welcome. But everyone seems glad enough of his presence for today, so he doesn't push it, just eases himself as unobtrusively as possible into the flow of the day.

Laura, Jordan, and the boys are long gone by the time Stiles gets downstairs. They don't go to church, but they have their own Sunday morning spiritual traditions. Stiles has always been eaten with curiosity about them, but he knows better than to pry.

Stiles has seen no sign of Allison or Cora, but given that they're notoriously early risers with a sickening commitment to healthy living and social justice, they're doubtless parkouring around the city in cat suits and masks, rescuing orphaned kittens.

Erica storms the kitchen at ten with her progeny in tow. She gets Claud and Vivi into shoes and jackets with terrifying efficiency (less time for both than Stiles needs for just Claud when she's at his place) and shoos them toward the door. Claud grins and waves madly at Stiles as they pass; he waves back and feels grateful for two days in a row where she seems to like him. Boyd kisses his daughters' cheeks as they pass and lifts Cory out of Erica's arms. Cory promptly attempts to get his father's ear into his mouth.

Boyd chuckles and pulls Erica close. It's hard to know who's drawing more comfort from whom, but when they separate after a lingering kiss that Stiles decorously turns away from—even though they are _both_ _so beautiful how is this fair?_ —they both look bolstered. Boyd leans close and whispers something in Erica's ear; whatever it is makes her laugh and look less stressed as she herds the girls out the door.

Stiles sets his breakfast plate in the dishwasher. "Brunching with Bethany?" he asks as he crosses to the coffee maker for his second cup of the morning.

Boyd offers Cory the side of his hand to gnaw on, which, _ouch_ , and thank goodness for werewolf healing. "Better them than me," he says, which Stiles won't disagree with. He got more than a lifetime's worth of exposure to the ceaseless judgments of the Reyes clan, especially Erica's sister Bethany, when Erica was pregnant with Claud.

By the time Derek comes downstairs at 10:30, ready to leave for work, Stiles and Boyd have taken over the dining room table with butcher paper and safety scissors, planning a Thanksgiving week activity for Boyd's students. Derek pauses at the head of the table and watches their barely controlled chaos for a moment before snorting. "I've always suspected people go into teaching the younger grades because they never grew out of those years."

Boyd cheerfully flips Derek off, barely pausing in color-coding his map of precolonial North America. Stiles laughs and drops his marker onto the table, propping his chair on two legs and considering Derek. He looks positively edible in his work clothes, a pale blue shirt and blue and gold plaid tie that do remarkable things for his eyes and black slacks that do downright _criminal_ things to his ass, but Stiles is more interested in the teasing sparkle in his eyes and the faint smile curling his lips. "And what do you make of people who go into interpreting?" Stiles asks, trying to match Derek's teasing tone. "Futilely attempting to make sense of a senseless world?"

"Is it futile to think we can understand each other?" And, okay, nobody warned him that Derek had it in him to be so earnest. It's adorable. Stiles isn't sure he can resist.

So he retreats behind being an asshole. "Naïve, maybe."

Boyd snorts and stands, walking toward where Cory's starting to fuss in the play-thingie. "You're both idiots," he says as he goes.

Derek shrugs. "No arguments from this end."

"Dewey still asleep?" Stiles asks. He wonders if he sounds as stilted as he feels.

Derek shakes his head. "She's been up for about an hour. Working on some mystery project she won't tell me about."

"Well, that's nerve-wracking."

"Tell me about it." They look at each other awkwardly, Derek's hands jammed into his pants pockets, Stiles' drumming arhythmically against the tabletop.

"Look, we—"

"About the—"

They fall silent. Stiles stares at the table, Derek at the floor. "You first," Derek says softly.

"Yeah, if I knew what the hell to say," Stiles says. "Listen, Derek, this has gotten kind of out of control. I want it to _work,_ you know? Not just for one date, or one night, but for . . ." He bites his lip, because "forever" isn't something either of them should be offering at this point. "For real," he says instead, and that feels right, too, in its way.

Derek pulls one hand free and turns it palm-up, fingers spread. "Tell me how," he says.

"I think . . ." Stiles sighs and rubs a hand through his hair, pulling it up into spikes. He tells himself it's the only viable solution. And the words are right there. He's just having a huge problem making them leave his mouth. "I think we have to—"

His phone rings.

_Saved by the fucking bell._

Stiles fumbles in his pocket for his phone. He doesn't recognize the number, and usually he would let an unknown caller roll to voicemail, but, fuck, anything's better than having this conversation with Derek. "Hello?"

There's an incredibly long pause, and Stiles would hang up if not for the _sense_ he gets, a strange prickling at the nape of his neck. _Danger,_ he thinks, not for himself, but for whoever's on the other end of the call. "Hello?" he says again. "Who's there?" Derek's frowning now, and Stiles notes in a vague, peripheral way, that Boyd's come back into the room. He wonders if they sense it, too.

"Is this Emissary Stilinski?" a small, scared, female voice asks.

Stiles grips his phone so hard its plastic case creaks under his fingers. " _Anna_?"

She gives a small sob. "Emissary Stilinski—"

"No, no," he says quickly. He stands and hovers behind his chair, ready to pace at the slightest provocation. He's pretty sure this call will provide that provocation and then some. "Please. Call me Stiles. It's a lot shorter."

"Okay, Stiles, I—can I put you on speaker?"

"Who else is there?" He isn't sure he wants to discuss his business in front of Anna's grove, and _certainly_ not the Adamses, if they've managed to recapture her.

"Just Dr. Deaton," she says.

"Yeah." Stiles rubs his temple. "Yeah, sure."

There's some fumbling with the phone, and then Deaton's voice says, "Hello, Stiles."

"Doc, what the hell is going on?"

"Where are you right now, and is anyone with you?"

"I'm at the Hale house. Boyd and Derek are here."

Stiles hears a whispered conversation in the pause, Deaton's voice and then Anna's, though Stiles can't catch the words. He looks at Derek and Boyd, but they shake their heads; even wolfy superhearing can't make it out.

"I would suggest you go to speaker on your end, as well," Deaton finally says into the phone. "I believe Mr. Boyd and Mr. Hale also have an interest in what Ms. Kraft has to say."

Stiles swallows against the sudden lump in his throat and switches to speaker. He glances at Derek and Boyd, who stand with arms crossed and jaws clenched. He turns back to his phone and blocks the others out of his attention. This is going to be hard enough without dealing with other people's emotions on top of his own. "Okay," he says, not surprised when his voice comes out shaky and scratchy, "You're on speaker, Anna."

"Okay, um . . ." Another long pause, and Stiles can _feel_ Anna's nervous shifting. "I made myself, I guess, uh, forget a lot of things from when I was with the Adams pack?"

"That's understandable," Stiles says gently.

"Oh," Anna says softly. When she speaks again, her voice sounds stronger. "But Dr. Deaton is helping me recover things, and I—you were nice to me, and Dr. Deaton says I should tell you what I know."

Stiles closes his eyes, just for a second. "I appreciate that, Anna," he says. "I really would like to know." Even though every instinct in him is screaming that he _won't_ like it at all.

"The Adams pack had me because—I mean, they kept me because I was useful. They didn't have an emissary, and I guess they've been, um, blacklisted? Because of whatever happened with their old one. But, um, once they had me, they, uh, I guess they realized I could be useful for other things, too?"

"Useful" has never been such an ominous word. "What kind of things?" Stiles asks, amazed he can keep his voice this even.

"I guess, uh . . . bait?"

 _Bait_. Stiles might throw up, right here on the butcher paper. He knew—he _knew_ their evening with the Adams pack had gone too smoothly. They'd gotten the emissary out without a fight—without any inconvenience, really, besides a delicious dinner and some charged small talk about the position of emissaries in ancient packs and the nature of the Hale and McCall pack kids.

_Oh, fuck. The kids._

Stiles' vision blurs. A broad hand clamps down on his shoulder, radiating heat into him, drawing him back to the present. He looks over and realizes his werewolf guards have moved to sit on either side of him. He smiles weakly at Derek. Boyd isn't touching him, but he's leaning closer than he normally does, and when Stiles offers him the same watery smile, he gently knocks their knees together.

Breathe in five slow counts, hold five. Breathe out five slow counts, hold five. Stiles does that until he can breathe normally without puking or fainting. Then he nods, for himself as much as anyone else. "What do you mean, bait?" he asks, though he has an idea.

"They wanted to see you," she replies. "They—they wanted to see your kids, too, but they couldn't think of a way to get them here."

On either side of him, Derek and Boyd go deathly still. Under the table, Stiles' knee starts jouncing, and he's not doing it voluntarily. "They wanna meet our kids, huh?"

"Yeah, I mean, just the two?"

Stiles' head snaps up. Two? _Which_ two? Why would they—

And then Anna says, "Because the DHO said, and I'm not sure why . . ."

Anna's still talking. Talking about how she doesn't understand why Alpha Adams, who flaunts his contempt for Druids and emissaries, would take orders from the Druid High Order. Some part of Stiles' brain knows this. But that part drowns beneath the part that's making the world gray at the edges, making his heart seize up and then beat triple-time, the one that freezes him to his chair while the world spins around him.

He doesn't know how much time passes while he's trapped in his personal hell, struggling for breath, body locked tight, before he realizes that his hand's being held against a broad, firm chest and that he can feel a strong, steady heartbeat under his fingertips. "Come on, Stiles," a voice coaxes. _Boyd_. Boyd's got him, is walking him out of the darkness. "Come on, feel my breathing. In . . . out . . . in . . . out."

Stiles matches Boyd's breathing, and his heartbeat slows and evens. His heart will never be as slow as a werewolf's, but it stops feeling like it's going to beat out of his chest.

He hears Derek's voice at the end of the table, talking softly into the phone. He doesn't hear a reply, so Derek must've taken it off speaker. Stiles keeps his attention on Boyd.

Boyd searches Stiles' face, and whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he releases Stiles' hand, though he doesn't move away. "Better?" he asks quietly. Stiles nods. Boyd leans forward and rests his elbows on his legs. "She's talking about our kids, right?" He makes a small motion with his finger that encompasses the three of them.

Stiles nods again. He can't bring himself to say it out loud, not yet.

"How'd this happen, man?" Boyd demands, his voice coming the closest to cracking that Stiles has ever heard. "You told us you'd shielded her."

"I _did_ ," Stiles insists. He grabs Boyd's hand. "Boyd, you gotta believe me. From the _second_ Claud was born, I have used _everything_ I know to hide her from anyone who wants to exploit her—and I'm teaching her how to do it for herself."

"They _found_ her."

Stiles sighs and releases Boyd's hand. He glances furtively at Derek. The thought's been worming its way up from his subconscious, but he's loath to give it voice. Derek seems engrossed in the phone call, not paying attention to them. "I think they found Dewey," he says quietly.

Boyd sits back abruptly. "Shit."

The problem is, everything Claud is, Dewey is going to be times, like, a hundred. She'll be able to shift, because her werewolf parent is born, not bitten. And she'll have _strong_ magic, because as good as Stiles is at this shit, Jennifer was exponentially better. She was a Major League MVP while Stiles is playing Little League T-ball.

He feels like an idiot: Claud's been protected all her life, but who's been looking out for Dewey? He hasn't thought to scan Dewey for protective spells. The DHO doesn't have as much influence in New York as it does in California, but given Jennifer's level of paranoia, especially at the end, she probably _drenched_ the kid in wards and shields. But some would've died with Jennifer, and she might've tied others to the city or even their apartment, and those would've snapped the instant Derek brought Dewey to Beacon Hills and declared his intention to stay here.

He knows, intellectually, that he has to keep his distance and let Deaton take care of the Hale pack's magical protections. But if Deaton's chosen _not_ to do that for Dewey, then Stiles should have _known_ that, to offer whatever protections he could, whenever he could, even beyond the permanent wards in his classroom.

How can he expect Derek to give them a shot if Stiles can't think to keep his kid safe?

"Damn it." Stiles stands. "I have to—"

Boyd nods. "I get it." He has his phone out and pressed to his ear before he's finished the sentence. Erica must pick up right away, because he says, "Yeah, baby, I know. It couldn't wait. I need to talk to Claud. . . . No, I just need to hear her voice." Stiles crosses to the stairs as quickly as his legs will carry him, and he's halfway up when he hears Boyd say, "Hey, sweetheart, how's—yeah, I know, Claudie, but she's Mama's sister, and . . . "

Stiles moves out of hearing range then, his gut clenched tight. _Claudie._ Boyd hasn't called her that since she was a toddler, and hearing it now sounds _wrong_. Boyd's the strongest of the three of them, the one who'd never freaked out when Claud climbed the tallest tree in the preserve or swallowed a handful of paperclips or any of the other reckless things she'd done before they'd been sure if she had werewolf healing or was a fragile human kid. Hearing him sounding scared twists everything in Stiles.

Dewey's in the second bedroom off Derek's suite. She's wearing a cheerfully yellow dress and is painstakingly cutting construction paper squares in red, blue, and yellow. As he watches, she finishes a red one and _tries_ to stack it with another red one. Instead it flies up into the air and joins a loose starburst pattern of all three colors that's hovering casually over Dewey's head. Twenty minutes ago, this display of magic would've fascinated Stiles, and he'd've been all over it, trying to figure out what she was working on. Now he drops to his knees and swoops her into a crushing hug. She squirms, pushing ineffectually at his shoulder with one small hand while the other holds a brown crayon over their heads as if she's keeping it away from him. "Mr. _Stilinski_ ," she huffs.

"I know," he says, releasing her and sitting back on his heels. "And I hate taking you away from your project, but we need to go downstairs. Your dad needs to talk to you."

Those damned Hale eyes narrow with suspicion. "Daddy's at work," she says.

 _Crap._ Stiles has forgotten that Derek was getting ready to leave for work when he came downstairs. He checks the clock on Dewey's nightstand: 10:45. Has it only been fifteen minutes since he was teasing Derek about being naïve? It feels like forever. If Derek leaves _right now,_ he'll only be five minutes late for work, but Stiles knows he won't leave until he can touch Dewey and see with his own eyes that she's all right. "He hasn't left yet."

"He's going to be late," Dewey informs him, and he chuckles weakly.

"He knows. He just needs to see you before he goes, okay?"

He can tell Dewey's still suspicious, but she acquiesces, traipsing down the stairs ahead of him. "Daddy?"

Derek crosses the room at a near run and sweeps Dewey into his arms. He buries his face in the waves of her hair and shuts his eyes tight, drawing in deep breaths. Sensing her father's distress, Dewey tucks her face into Derek's neck and snuffles.

Derek thrusts a phone at Stiles, and it takes him a second to realize it's his. "Deaton wants to talk to you," Derek says gruffly, half turned away to have more privacy with Dewey.

Stiles takes the phone to the other side of the room, near Boyd, who's ended his call and is making no secret of listening in Stiles'. "Hey, Deaton. It's Stiles."

"Welcome back, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says kindly. "I trust you're feeling better."

"Well, I'm breathing at a socially acceptable speed, if that's what you mean," he snaps. Then he sighs and reminds himself that Deaton is a vet, not a psychologist. "Hey, did you know dogs get panic attacks?"

Stiles hears a faint chuckle in Deaton's voice when he says, "Yes, Mr. Stilinski, I do know that. It's a fascinating topic which I'd be happy to discuss with you—some other time."

"Right, sure." Some other time. When overweening fascist Druids aren't—"Hey, Doc, I missed a lot of the conversation while I was trying to breathe. Wanna hit me with the tl;dr version?"

A sigh of deep suffering escapes from Deaton, but he says, "Please understand that this is all surmise at present, given that Ms. Kraft wasn't an active member of the discussions between the DHO representative and Alpha Adams. However, it would appear that the DHO is attempting to invoke the Education Exchange provision of the Salem Pact of 1693—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Stiles explodes, not caring that Dewey's in the room. "The Exchange clause was _never_ intended—"

"I am aware of what the provision intends, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says sharply. "You asked for an explanation; I'm providing one. If you'd care to further discuss what the treaty was or wasn't intended for, again, that conversation might be best held at another time."

Stiles sinks into the nearest chair. "No, you—you're right. Yeah. Okay. Can I come by the clinic later?"

Deaton hums as he, presumably, checks his schedule. "Come at three. We only have one appointment then, and I'm sure Dr. McCall can handle it."

Stiles has never been so grateful that Deaton and Scott keep the clinic open all weekend. He could go to Deaton's house, but stepping into another magic user's personal domain makes him feel like he's wearing a sweater two sizes too small and made from the world's cheapest yarn. "I'll be there," he says. They sort out a few more details and end the call. When Stiles looks up, he finds three concerned werewolves staring at him. He smiles weakly. "Uh. Hey, everybody."

Boyd snorts. "Salem Pact of 1693. Go."

"Uh . . ." Stiles rubs his face. "You guys don't wanna, maybe, sit down? Get comfy? Not freakin' _loom_ over me like you're about to eat me?"

"Stiles," Derek growls. It's half cajoling, half warning, and what does it say about Stiles that he finds it so incredibly hot?

"Don't test me, buster," Stiles snaps, pointing at him, vainly attempting to cover his spike of lust with annoyance. "I will Treaty of Vancouver your furry butt so fast your head will spin. Visiting emissary, remember?"

Boyd rolls his eyes—but he sits beside Stiles, so, hey, victory. "You're here more than you're at your house," he says, jabbing Stiles' ankle with his toe. "You don't count as a visitor."

Derek sits across the table from Stiles and Boyd, Dewey in his lap. Stiles isn't sure how he feels talking about this in front of a six-year-old, but he knows how to choose his battles, and he doesn't choose telling a werewolf parent to send his kid out of the room when that kid is being threatened. "So. Salem. Witch trials. You remember those, right?"

"Of course we don't _remember_ them, Stiles, how old do you think we—"

"I mean, you remember _learning_ about them, oh my _god_." Despite the gravity of the situation, Stiles can't help but laugh at Derek's misplaced indignation. Derek subsides with a quiet and embarrassed, "Oh," and Stiles continues, "So, most of the so-called witches who died during the trials weren't witches, you know? They were _really_ unlucky people, mostly women, who had property their neighbors wanted, or opinions they didn't like, or whatever. People with magic knew how to hide. But the local Druids did whatever they could to stop the killing, and they were _pissed_ that most of the werewolves refused to help. By the end of the trials, relations were shot to shi—shinola." He shoots a guilty look at Dewey, but she's not paying attention; she's gotten her hands on Derek's phone and is playing with one of the art apps Derek installed for her.

"So once everything died down, a bunch of people from both sides got together and wrote the Salem Pact. It was supposed to fix a lot of things, but especially the part where werewolves and Druids didn't _know_ each other. They worried most about the kids—the half-werewolf, half-Druid ones, who, uh, _nobody_ liked." He scowls, because Claud and Dewey are fucking _delights,_ okay? "And there was this clause about an education exchange. Werewolf and half-were kids were supposed to spend six months in a Druid community learning magic, and Druid and half-Druid kids would spend six months in an all-werewolf pack to learn structure and dynamics."

Derek and Boyd snort, and Stiles nods eagerly. "And it was a _huge_ disaster, _of course_ , because packs are almost always mixed, and the ones that aren't are like Deucalion's and don't want anything to do with interspecies kiddies. So the kids learned Druidry but not wolfery, and the wolves accused the Druids of promoting an anti-werewolf agenda, and relations got _worse_ , and the whole thing got scrapped in the 1770s."

"But no one terminated the treaty," Boyd guesses.

Stiles spreads his hands. "Its other provisions keep Druids and weres in New England from killing each other most of the time, so, no. Nobody wants to terminate the treaty because one part turned out to be a god-awful idea."

"So the DHO is trying to use this old pact to _take_ Claud and Dewey?" Boyd demands. His anger burns quieter than everyone else Stiles knows, but it's three times as terrifying, because it burns for so damned long, destroying everything in its path _._

"And—" Stiles _really_ hates to say this part, but everyone needs all the facts here. "The DHO is _not_ known for keeping its word or playing nice with other supes. They might start out saying six months, because that's what the treaty says, but at the end of six months they'd find a reason to extend it to nine, or twelve. They might even make a case for permanent custody or hide Claud and Dewey where we couldn't find them."

"Why would they want that?" Boyd demands. "I thought they didn't like interspecies kids."

Stiles grimaces. "Asked and answered, dude," he says quietly.

Derek makes this sound that—well, it's difficult to describe. It's like a roar was building in his throat and he literally swallowed it. He buries his face in Dewey's hair, and Stiles watches, fascinated, as Derek's shoulders heave with the effort he's making to get himself under control. When he finally lifts his face, his eyes blaze electric blue, and his upper lip bulges like it's accommodating his top fangs, but Stiles _knows_ this is better than they would've gotten thirty seconds ago. "How do we stop them?" he says with a deadly calm belied by every tensed line of his body.

Stiles sets his fingers to his temples and rubs. "Depends on who you're asking," he says, lowering his hand. "Are you asking Stiles-the-emissary? Because that dude has to counsel caution and patience and beg you to wait until you have a fuller understanding of the situation. But if you're asking Stiles-the-father, _that_ dude's going to say it'd take Danny three hours, _tops_ , to figure out where these bastards hide out and that between our two packs, we've got more than enough physical and magical strength to take them out."

Stiles watches Boyd and Derek share wordless manly communication. Then Derek sighs and slumps backward, pulling Dewey with him. She grumbles at the disruption but is content to go where Derek positions her. "You and I don't have the authority to make this decision," Derek tells Boyd.

Boyd shrugs. "Alpha's brother, second's husband," he says. "I call that plenty of authority."

"Yeah, totally," Stiles says, nodding. "Danny and I do that all the time."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Somehow, that fails to fill me with confidence."

Stiles shrugs and stands. "Whatever. Honestly, whatever we decide to do, I doubt we're going to do it _today._ You talk to Laura and Erica; I'll talk to Deaton and Scott. And then we'll see what's going on. And _you_ , buster," he adds, pointing at Derek, "get to work."

"Oh, _no_ ," Derek gasps. He transfers Dewey none-too-gently to the chair next to him, plants a sloppy kiss on her head, and rushes to the kitchen to grab himself lunch. Or dinner. Or whatever you call it when your shift is 11 to 7 and your break's around 4.

Stiles stares at the empty kitchen archway for about ten seconds before he bounces to his feet and crosses over to it. "I'm gonna—I just want to—"

" _Go_ ," Boyd says, waving his hand. "But you and I are due a _long_ conversation about professional ethics." He narrows his eyes. "And don't think I'm above letting Kira sit here and look disappointed in you while we do it."

Stiles hisses and grabs the archway molding dramatically. "You are a cold, cold man, Vernon Boyd."

In the end, Stiles leans against the counter and watches Derek make his lunch. It's far from unethical, and yet in some ways it feels _more_ unprofessional than having sex with Derek had. This feels intimate in an entirely different way. Stiles shivers and wraps his arms around himself. How many different ways is his life going to spin out of control today?

"Stiles," Derek says. He's putting the cheese and cold cuts back in the refrigerator, which he seems to be using as an excuse to keep his back to Stiles while he says whatever he's about to say. "About last night—"

"Nope!" Stiles shoves off the counter, hands in the air.

Derek turns. His eyes are wide and earnest, and his voice is painfully gentle. "We need to talk about—"

"Yes, okay, sure, we need to talk. But not when you're already going to be fifteen minutes late for work. Not when I need all my focus for figuring out how we're going to stop a powerful Druid organization from taking our kids away. We'll talk. It'll suck and be painful, but, sure, if that's what you want, we'll talk. But not now."

Derek tilts his head from side to side, studying Stiles. Then he sighs and steps forward until he's crowding against Stiles, pressing him into the counter. Which seems like the exact opposite of the plan, but whatever. Stiles isn't going to complain. "I don't—" Derek presses his lips together, and Stiles swallows his urge to lick them. "Since the fire—since we figured out what Peter did to us—I don't trust easily." His eyes search Stiles' face. "I trust _you_ , Stiles. You'll find a way to keep our kids safe." He leans forward. Stiles closes his eyes in anticipation, but the kiss, when it lands, is a gentle press of lips against his forehead, like a benediction. Heart thundering, Stiles opens his eyes and locks gazes with Derek, who's smiling gently at him. "I have to go," Derek says. He leans around Stiles, grabs his lunch, and walks out of the kitchen before Stiles can pull himself together.

* * *

By the time Stiles is ready to leave for his meeting with Deaton, everyone in the Hale pack who isn't working today has come home. Over lunch, Stiles and Boyd bring the other adults up to speed on the state of affairs. Erica loses control for a second when she hears about the DHO trying to take Claud away, so now the cushion of her chair is sporting some wicked new puncture marks, but all in all, they handle the news well. And by "well" Stiles means "with threats of bloody vengeance," which pleases him.

Erica corners him as he's getting his things together to leave for the clinic. He cowers (in an entirely manly fashion) against the wall while she pins him in a corner, eyes flashing gold. God, she is so fierce and strong and unbelievably beautiful, and Stiles suddenly remembers that the two months he and Erica dated was when he _really_ came to understand the concept of the fear-boner. He doesn't trust his voice, so he waits in silence.

"Listen to me, Stiles," Erica says, staring into his eyes, "I know you have a lot of rules around neutrality and what you are and aren't allowed to do. And I know that since you're not _our_ emissary, I don't have the right to ask you for anything. But I am telling you right now: forget that fucking shit. You break every rule you have to to keep our girl safe from these ass-sticks. Do you understand me?"

There is, Stiles realizes, a freedom in Erica's words. It sounds like a threat—protect Claud or else—but she's offering absolution in advance. Whatever he has to do to stop the DHO, whatever sacred balance he has to upset, he has permission to point to Erica and say, "What else could I do, with an overprotective mama wolf breathing down my neck?"

Stiles nods, holding Erica's intense gaze. "I will."

Boyd's standing beside the door as Stiles makes his way to it. He's holding Cory, and Claud and Dewey lean against his sides. Stiles draws Claud against him in a fierce hug, ignoring her attempts to squirm away. "I gotta go, sprog," he tells her as he rubs circles on her back that are more for soothing _him_. "Promise you'll be good for your Mama and Papa."

"Tatuś," she huffs.

Stiles is having none of it. He holds her at arm's length and tilts her chin up so she has to look at him. "I'm serious, Claudia," he says, and she snaps to attention. She's at the age where she's starting to realize that her life isn't like other kids' lives, that she'll face dangers her classmates will never know exist. "There's something going on, and until it's settled, you need to be _extra-good_ , okay? I know it's hard, and it feels like we're smothering you, but we want you safe."

She nods, though her eyes are brimming with uncertainty now. "Okay, Tatuś," she whispers, and when Stiles releases her, she clings to Boyd with all her strength.

Stiles forces a brighter smile for Dewey. "You, too?" he asks. "Are you gonna be good for us?"

"Sure, Mr. Stilinski," Dewey says easily. Stiles doesn't know where she gets her imperturbable calm, but he needs a year's supply, like, _yesterday._

* * *

"' _Wait_ '?! _That's_ your foolproof plan for dealing with this very real threat?"

Stiles' meeting with Deaton is going poorly.

"We have no proof that the DHO was involved in what the Adams pack did to Anna." Deaton's seated at his desk, hands folded serenely on the surface. Stiles doesn't think the guy blinks enough. It seriously freaks him out.

"They knew the pack had her!" Stiles, on the other hand, is standing in front of the desk, not pacing but not exactly still. He hasn't been still since he walked into the clinic. "She heard someone from the DHO talking to Deucalion. They're sworn to protect us, not sell us out."

"How do you suggest we proceed?"

"Danny."

Deaton tilts his head, and Stiles entertains the brief fantasy that the next words out of his mouth will be that Danny doesn't need to bother, that Deaton knows where the DHO hangs out and is ready and willing to lead both packs there as soon as Scott finishes sewing up the blue point Himalayan in the operating room. But it's hardly surprising when he says, "You know I don't think it's healthy to speak of the DHO as if—"

"As if I'm not a member, yeah, whatever."

"Any Druid who attains—"

"First Circle initiation, yadda yadda. We didn't choose that. It's like the Beacon Hills alumni society. Technically, we're both part of it, because we graduated from BHHS, but it's not like I'm keeping up with the alumni newsletter or serving on the reunion committee. Everybody knows the real DHO is the Third Circle, and they're, like, ten old white dudes in bathrobes. They're the only ones who care. You're damned right I don't consider myself part of it."

"For the record," Deaton says casually, "I read the alumni newsletter cover to cover every quarter. And I'm on the reunion committee."

Stiles whistles. "Doc, if you're trying to get me on your side, whatever that is, you're doing a _bad_ job of it."

Deaton shrugs, unconcerned. "You have no evidence against the Third Circle. Anna can only confirm that she heard someone who claimed to be DHO in the Adams house. The Third Circle can easily claim they didn't realize Anna was being held against her will, or that she was there at all, or that the meeting even took place. It's unlikely the people whom Anna heard were Third Circle; they're bound to disavow any knowledge of what was going on."

"So we find evidence." Stiles tosses up his hands, because, seriously, how is this not the obvious conclusion? "My pack has a gifted hacker and a member of one of the most renowned hunter families in the world, and I happen to be the sheriff's son, in case you've forgotten. Your pack has Beacon County's best deputy and the hereditary werewolf family of this part of the state. Between us, we can dig up the dirt."

"And then what? Stiles, you know as well as I do that most supernatural beings and organizations safeguard themselves against apprehension by normal police agencies. You could be putting your father and Deputy Hale at serious risk just by investigating."

"They know the risk. They deal with that every day. And I'm not about to tell them not to take whatever steps they can to protect our kids."

"I am aware of that fact," Deaton says, a strange compassion sneaking into his voice. "Which is why I suggest that you transfer emissary responsibilities for the McCall pack to Ms. Martin until this matter is resolved."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Stiles demands.

Deaton spreads his hands. "She is your designated backup, is she not?"

"For, like, life-threatening emergencies. But her magic's weak, untrained, and highly susceptible to interference from her banshee powers. Having her as emissary for any extended period would be more dangerous than having none at all."

"Either option would be preferable, at this point, to an emotionally compromised emissary who can't do what he must for his pack."

"Excuse me?!?" Stiles feels rage bubbling up in him like he hasn't felt in years. Oh, he will take great pleasure in ripping this self-righteous asshole to shreds and dealing with the repercussions later.

"If you were forced to choose, at this moment, between Scott's life and your daughter's, which would you choose?"

"Claud," Stiles says without hesitation, "and he would choose Kira and the weresune over me. We know that, and we get it. It's okay."

"Even if allowing Scott to die would result in the deaths of the rest of your pack?"

Stiles gapes. Stiles has never been a traditional emissary, because Scott's not a traditional alpha. It's worked for their pack so far. But they've never faced a threat like this before; maybe their usual way of dealing with things isn't going to fly.

Deaton smiles sadly at him, and for a minute Stiles believes he feels bad about all of this. "It would only be until we resolve the situation with the children."

Fear and uncertainty give way again to rising anger and frustration. "Which will happen never, if we do things your way!" His eyes widen. "Is this your angle? Squeeze me out and replace me with Lydia? Because, buddy, let me tell you: she will not be more biddable."

Deaton stares, appalled. "Stiles, I would never—"

"But you _would_ , Alan, and that's the problem." Stiles leaps out of his chair and paces, pulling up his hair in crazy spikes. "You played enigmatic wise man the whole time you were training me, and now you're pissed that I'm filling the gaps in my education my way. If I'm doing something wrong, you should've sucked it up and taught me the right way!"

"Some things can't be taught," Deaton insists, his voice full of urgent sincerity that makes Stiles' stomach clench. "They can only be lived. You've been fortunate in not having to live them, but your reprieve is nearly over. And when the time comes, I worry that you'll be unable to make the choice you need to."

"I'll make the choice I need to make for my daughter and my pack. Won't you do the same?"

"I'll do what I must to maintain balance," he says, which is exactly what Stiles expected.

"Claud and Dewey, they're in your pack, Deaton. How can you not want to fight for them?"

Deaton puts his hands palms-down on his desk and looks intently into Stiles' eyes. "I've told you from the beginning that how you and Scott structure your alpha-emissary relationship is up to you. I stand by that statement. But the difference between you and me is that I don't think of the Hale pack as 'mine.' I don't consider myself part of the pack. And if you truly understood what will be asked of you as an emissary, you would think the same way. Or you would've said no when Scott asked."

The "fuck you" is on the tip of Stiles' tongue, but rage has too tight a grip to let it escape. He flees the clinic without a word and doesn't stop until he reaches the Argents' gun range.

He begs Allison not to talk to him as she confirms that his certifications are up-to-date and sets him up on a lane. After an hour of plugging paper targets with bullets and trying not to imagine they're Deaton's face, he feels settled enough to be around other human beings. But he doesn't fully stop shaking until the next morning.


	7. A Merry Band

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a fair bit of food and a brief discussion of another character's queerphobic behavior. As always, please let me know if I should tag for something.

**_November 11, 2021_ **

" _How many_ kids?" Derek wonders if he sounds as shocked as he feels.

Alpha McCoy laughs as she checks something on her computer. "Twenty in the band," she says. "My husband and I have eight."

Derek shakes his head. "I can't even imagine . . ."

With a sharp grin, the alpha pulls a tablet and stylus out of her desk and starts opening files. "You know, most days I can't either." Outside the office window, the small herd of Frank-McCoy children roars past. Alpha McCoy's smile softens. "It's worth it, though."

Derek nods, though he's uncertain as to what, _exactly,_ he's agreeing with. Being a parent is, without a doubt, worth every heartbreak and hassle it's brought him. Being a parent to _eight kids_? He's not sure about that.

Alpha McCoy turns the tablet to face him and hands him the stylus. "Your documents are fine. Looks like you had a good lawyer in New York."

Derek grins. "He was almost as good as you."

She laughs brightly and walks him through the places he needs to sign or initial on the forms. A few legal differences between California and New York require different forms or an alteration of what he previously had in place, especially with his advance medical directive, but a will's a will in any jurisdiction, and Laura and Jordan will still become Dewey's legal guardians if anything happens to Derek; the only difference is that now Dewey lives with them and won't have to be moved cross-country.

"Have you spoken with the sheriff's department about the specifications around Dewey's maternal grandparents?" Alpha McCoy asks as she takes back the stylus and tablet.

Derek sighs. "Yeah. Actually, a sheriff's deputy recommended I put those in."

"Jordan?" she nods. "Make sure he's discussed them with Sheriff Stilinski. That's an area where you don't want _any_ surprises."

"Thanks. I will." He waits while she emails him the signed documents and returns the tablet and stylus to her desk.

She turns back to him and takes a drink from the mug she's been nursing throughout the meeting, a garishly red thing that says, "If Alpha ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" in child-shaky white lettering. "Now," she says, "what's the other thing?"

Derek toys with his own mug, which bears the crest of the upstate New York boarding school for troubled supernaturals the alpha's husband attended. He'd researched it when Dewey was born; if ever a child ran an elevated risk of being a "troubled supernatural," it was his kid. "How do you know there's another thing?" he asks, stalling.

She snorts. "I'm an alpha, a mother, and a lawyer. I have a _lot_ of experience with people not wanting to talk about something."

Derek nods, staring into his tea. "Have you heard what happened with the Adams pack?"

Three weeks have passed since the rescue mission that got Anna Kraft away from the Adams pack, three weeks since the phone call that started showing them pieces of the pack's alliance with the Druid High Order. They've been doing everything they can think of to find the rest of the pieces and reveal the whole pattern, but the crucial piece continues to lie mockingly outside their grasp. Even with Danny having hunted down the Third Circle's every computer transaction, phone call, and text, no motive has revealed itself beside an unhealthy interest in the children of the Hale and McCall packs and a handful of ominous references to "educating" Dewey and Car. Which makes Derek want to find them and tear them apart but isn't, in itself, enough evidence to justify his doing so.

Alpha McCoy's mouth sets in a tight line. "We're letting Justine and our emissaries handle our response. Usually we prefer to let calmer heads prevail, but in this case it's important to remind people that we are _predators_ and a bad choice of enemies." Justine Frank, co-alpha of the Frank-McCoy band, has a _notoriously_ sharp tongue and will undoubtedly come up with a response so scathing even Deucalion will think twice about firing back. Not that he'd be likely to. The Frank-McCoys are the largest werewolf band in the western United States. They're financially stable, well connected to the communities surrounding them, and strong enough in terms of both numbers and magical backup to be practically invulnerable to attack. With a pack of five, even as power-mad a challenger as Deucalion would come after the Frank-McCoys only as a target of last resort.

Then again, the Hale pack had been much the same before the fire.

With effort, Derek draws himself back to the present, where Alpha McCoy is patiently waiting. "The girl—the emissary," he says. "She was a . . . a ruse, we think. Part of some larger plan the Adams pack is cooking up with the Druid High Order."

She inhales fast. "Do you have proof? Because I have no problem believing either of them would pull something like this, but if we're going to accuse _every_ Druid in North America—"

Derek shakes his head. "Only Emissary Kraft's word. It's good enough for us and the McCall pack, because our alphas and emissaries saw the conditions Deucalion was keeping her in. But we understand if it's not enough for anyone else." He sets his mostly empty mug aside and leans forward. "The real issue," he says as Alpha McCoy leans forward, as well, "is that whatever they're planning involves our kids. Dewey and Claud Reyes-Boyd, specifically."

She looks at him sharply. "Emissary Stilinski's daughter." Derek opens his mouth and then closes it. Alpha McCoy rolls her eyes. "It's not a secret, Derek. Who do you think Erica came to when she thought giving up the child might be an option?"

Derek stares at her. He'd had no idea about that. Then again, he'd known Car pretty much her whole life but had somehow managed to miss meeting Stiles before September, so maybe he's not the best judge of these things.

The alpha takes in his bewilderment and chuckles briefly before her expression turns serious again. "So they're after the Druid children."

"For starters." Derek frowns. "Kira Yukimura is pregnant."

"The kitsune and the true alpha." Alpha McCoy's eyes narrow, but she's not looking at him; she's clearly seeing something else in her mind's eye. "No," she says slowly, shaking her head, "the DHO wouldn't care about that. If it's not directly related to the magical aspects of pack function, they don't give a damn." Derek relaxes at this pronouncement until she continues, "Of course, that's not to say you shouldn't worry. We're aware of the crap Deucalion Adams and his pack are capable of. I'd sure as hell be taking all possible precautions if they were after our kids."

"Are they? No one's talking, but I know you guys are . . ."

"Supernatural kid central?" A small smile flickers at the corners of her mouth. "The thing is, our kids are pretty straight-forward. They're either weres whose packs have died or . . . well, my oldest calls them squibs, which is awful, but not inaccurate."

"Human children born to werewolf parents."

She nods. "Your pack's never cared about that, thank god, but some weres consider them weak. Liabilities." Derek bristles and tries not to think about someone calling Aunt Erin weak, or Car a liability. Alpha McCoy smiles, and it's not entirely pleasant. "Their loss."

"So what _are_ 'all possible precautions'?" Derek asks.

"Banding," she says instantly.

"That's . . . a big step." He rubs his right thumb over the back of his left hand.

Alpha McCoy gives him a sharp "we'll have none of your bullshit" look. _Alpha, mother, lawyer,_ he reminds himself. He never stood a chance. "You asked about all possible precautions," she reminds him. "Banding is one of them. One of the best, in my opinion. Especially since children are involved."

"Why?"

Alpha McCoy folds her hands on the desktop and considers him. He wonders what she sees. "The magic that connects an alpha to a child in their pack is _very_ strong. I think emissaries have a similar link, but try getting one of the secretive bastards to say anything about it."

Derek frowns. "You've _met_ Stiles, right?"

" _Stiles_ ," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "We have one like him. They'll talk for _days_ , but what have they _said_?"

Derek opens his mouth to protest but shuts it as her words sink in. He could write _books_ about Stiles' childhood, his students, his opinions on superheroes—but what he knows about Stiles' magic and his work as Scott's emissary would barely fill a pamphlet. "Huh."

"Yeah." She grins. "The point is that when a child is officially welcomed as part of a pack, they get an extra jolt of protective magic from the alpha and the emissary. If that child goes through the banding ritual, they get those jolts from _every_ alpha and emissary involved. And every member of the packs gets a boost. It's not as strong as you'd get from a new packmate, but this is faster, and it's a more viable solution for an alpha like Scott, who doesn't have the territory or the financial solvency to expand his pack that much."

Derek scowls and crosses his arms. "So it's good for Scott. What's in it for us?"

"Besides the added protection for your children?" she asks archly, and he shifts sheepishly. "Well, I appreciate that in a crisis, I can call on _any_ available beta or emissary. Think about it: what would happen if you were in a fight today and Scott gave you an order?"

Derek growls and fights the shift that wants to break out of him. He would obey any order Scott gave him, but he'd expend as much energy resisting his urge to rebel as he would carrying out the instruction—a division of effort that would cost him.

Alpha McCoy nods. "And I can guarantee that he and Laura would feel the same about their betas _taking_ orders from another alpha. Once you're a band, that goes away. Your loyalty to Laura will always be stronger, but you'll stop fighting instructions from Scott, and Laura won't be bothered by him telling you to do something. That'll be an enormous benefit in fights and negotiations." Derek notes the way she's skipped over conditional tenses and gone straight to future, as if the decision's been made. "There's also a . . . I can't describe it, exactly, but a unique magic happens when multiple packs agree to come together as one unit. When they _officially_ lay down grievances and territory disputes and declare that they're going to stand together from now on."

Derek stares at her. What she's describing sounds so _perfect_ he feels a pang behind his sternum. This is what his old pack, his _family,_ felt like.

They talk for another twenty minutes about the banding process—what the ritual looks like and does, what each pack would have to do to prepare for it, what would happen after. At the end, she looks at him with a sternness that seems elevated, even for her. "The most important thing about forming a band," she says, " _the_ most important thing, and I'm not kidding even a little, is making sure _all_ the betas are comfortable with _all_ the alphas."

"Sure," Derek says easily, "we like Scott."

Alpha McCoy purses her lips. "I was talking about Laura."

The growl escapes Derek's mouth before he's conscious of it. Alpha McCoy flashes her eyes red to remind him that he's a guest in her territory.

"What do you _mean_?" he grits out, low and fierce, because alpha or no, she doesn't get to badmouth his sister— _his_ alpha—without challenge.

"I _mean,_ Derek," she says gently, "that no one's perfect. You have to be sure Laura's going to treat _everyone_ in Scott's pack with the same respect and that they'll be willing to take orders from her. If they're resisting her authority, you lose those advantages of banding we've been talking about."

"Who the hell wouldn't she _respect_?" he demands.

"Well, there's respect, and then there's _respect_ ," Alpha McCoy says, which is in no way helpful. "Just . . . make sure you talk to everyone in Scott's pack before you make any decisions. Maybe start with Isaac and Danny. Take Cora with you."

 _Oh, shit._ Now he knows what she's talking about, and he lowers his head, because she's absolutely right.

Because she's a gracious hostess, she says, "I'll text you the documents we have on the banding process. One of our betas developed a worksheet for things packs need to consider before committing to the match." She stands. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get one of my children to . . . whatever the hell activity they're going to today."

Derek smiles incredulously. "You don't know what activity?"

"Please," she says, snapping her briefcase shut and locking it in her desk, "I don't know which _child_. Hank has a spreadsheet; it's the only way to keep track of who goes where when. Without it, we'd be up shit creek—end up taking the kid who's afraid of water to a swim meet, that sort of thing."

When Derek chuckles, she gives him a dirty look, and he hastily explains, "I'm surprised your kids join teams at all. I mean, with your eight, you have enough for just about any team you could want. With all twenty in the band, you could have your own _league_."

Eyes twinkling, Alpha McCoy opens her office door and gestures Derek through. "Laugh all you want, but your pack's up to, what, six? That's a hockey team."

Derek blinks and then grins. "Sure, if we don't mind Boyd and Erica's son eating the puck."

She laughs. "Make him goalie."

* * *

Derek gets home at two. He's at loose ends.  Tonight is his dinner with Melissa and the sheriff, which somehow turned into dinner with Melissa and the sheriff and Scott and Kira and Stiles and Claud. To save Derek an extra trip, Kira's taking Dewey straight to the sheriff and Melissa's house after school. With nothing pressing to do before it's time to get ready for dinner, he suspects he's doomed to several hours of aimlessly rattling around the house.

He pulls up short when he walks into the kitchen, contemplating making tea, and finds Cora slumped at the counter with her forehead on her laptop keyboard and a snowdrift of papers around her. Remus lies on the floor by her feet, looking about as dejected as she does. "Um," Derek says eloquently.

Cora lifts her head, and Derek gets to laugh at the gridlines the keyboard's left on her forehead before they start to fade. "Shut up," she says weakly and then thumps her head down again, on the counter this time.

"Are you—do you need anything?"

"I'm distraught," she announces.

Derek swallows. Distraught. That sounds . . . complicated. Emotional. "I was going to make tea. Do you want any?" He's much better at doing things for people than he is at talking about their feelings.

Cora perks up. "Savage Beast?"

Derek sighs as he fills the kettle. "The man owns an entire tea shop," he grouses. "Do we only have _one kind_ of tea in the house?"

"You can have whatever kind you want. _I_ need soothing."

Derek snorts and gets the Savage Beast and the Tieguanyin out of the cupboard. _He's_ feeling civilized. He takes a deep breath. "So, what are you distraught about?"

Cora groans. "I can spend _days_ on the research, and I can talk about it for _hours_ , but as soon as I have to write up my results . . ." She waves her hands at the mess of papers around her.

"Writing's like talking," Derek says. "Just with your fingers instead of your mouth."

"You hate talking," she grumbles.

He hums in concession. When the tea's ready, he sets Cora's mug in front of her and rubs her back. Then he settles on the stool next to hers and turns her laptop toward him.

"No!" she shrieks. "Don't read it!"

So far, the only thing on the screen is Cora's name, a page number, and the date her dissertation is due. She hasn't even titled it. Derek lifts his eyebrows.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," she grumbles.

Derek rolls his neck, cracks his knuckles (earning a shudder from Cora), and sets his fingers on the home row. "Okay, so, talk."

She frowns at him. "What?"

"You're right: you're better at talking, and I'm better at writing. So talk. I'll transcribe."

"Derek! A transcript of me babbling about my research for an hour isn't a dissertation."

"No," he agrees, "but you'll have the structure of the narrative on the page. I bet that'll be easier to form into a dissertation than starting from nothing."

"I don't know," she says skeptically. "I talk fast and use a lot of scientific terminology."

He fixes her with a glare. "And after Dewey was born, I spent a year doing medical transcription from home."

"Right," she says, though she's too stubborn to look sheepish. "I forgot."

Cora talks, and Derek types. It's the best way he could learn about her research. And he likes feeling useful, especially given the holding pattern they've been stuck in for the last three weeks with the situation with the DHO and the Adams pack.

Cora's research originated in studies performed on humans in the early aughts that proved that sense of smell played a role in partner selection. "The basis is immunological," she says. "Women consistently chose the men whose immune systems were most different from their own."

Which makes sense, when Derek thinks about it. A partner with a dissimilar immune profile increases the number of diseases offspring would be immune to.

"That study got me thinking about werewolf mates," Cora says. She's been animated and energetic, but now she drops her gaze and draws her index finger through a spilled drop of tea on the counter.

Derek covers her hand with his. He knows they're both thinking of their parents, who'd taught them that true mates were a myth and that they should find someone who respected them and treated them well and made them laugh rather than following a pipe dream of "the one." The irony was that, of all the couples he knew, his parents had come the closest to the idealized image of true mates.

The official part of Cora's research, the part she'll be defending, brings the original human study up to date, reproducing the original partner selection experiments with romantic and sexual minorities.

Derek puts away the computer when Cora moves on to the unofficial part of her research, the part the university will never know about. A second test group, comprised entirely of supernatural beings. Those results had been the same as the human study, but multiplied nearly a hundredfold. "It's so cool," she says, showing him several pages of graphs that mean nothing to him. "I mean, traditionally, supernaturals only married their own kind, if that was an option. But look at these graphs. Partnerships between two different kinds of supernaturals. The immunologic overlap is practically nil. It's the closest you can come to giving your offspring two immune systems."

"So . . ." Derek swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, not quite sure how to phrase this without giving himself away. "So the better a potential partner smells to us . . ." He trails off, not knowing how to finish.

She gives him a shrewd look. "In your case, I would be more worried about how good _you_ smell to _him_."

Derek's shoulders slump. Yeah. He's been hoping she wouldn't mention that. He doesn't know why he's reluctant to talk about it, this rumor that Stiles and his ordinary human senses can smell Derek's base scent. Maybe it's because it hammers home for him, _again_ , how much he's missing until June.

Cora's hand closes over Derek's. "I can't imagine how much this sucks for you. But if I can judge from my research, Stiles is going to be completely worth the wait."

Derek nods and turns his hand so he can squeeze hers back. He glances at the stove clock. Two hours have passed, and he feels more connected to Cora than he has in years. Still— "It doesn't sound romantic to tell him his immune system smells good."

She laughs and slides her laptop back across the counter. Derek's transcribed a good twenty pages for her; a long way from a dissertation, but better than a cursor blinking accusingly from a blank document.  "What time are you supposed to be at dinner?"

Derek looks at the clock and groans. "Not for another two hours."

Cora closes her laptop and hops off her stool. "Want to go for a run?"

He smiles. "That sounds perfect."

They shift and run, chasing and tackling each other around the preserve like they used to when they were kids. Sometimes they have to stop for a minute and let an old hurt pass, the constant chorus of _Hey, this is the spot where_ and _do you remember the time when_ recalling again and again the ones they've lost. The time they caught Aunt Erin and Aunt Penny making out in this thicket. This spot where Owen _always_ somehow managed to fall into the creek. The way their mother's alpha howl bounced around this clearing. Every inch of the preserve thrums with memories as painful as they are precious, and Derek and Cora understand how important it is, even now, nine years after the fire, to honor that hurt and loss when it sneaks up on them.

After the run, Derek takes an indulgently long shower. He's wired and unsettled, and sitting at a table with Stiles all evening and not touching him sounds like the most exquisite torture. He imagines Stiles, probably wearing jeans, a sweater vest, and a bowtie, which seems to be his school-day uniform, casting sultry looks across his parents' dinner table, and he isn't surprised when his cock rises rapidly.

He jerks himself with firm, slow strokes, a twist at the head, thumb across the slit, his usual repertoire. Mostly he's on autopilot, though when his mind superimposes the image of longer, slimmer fingers over his own, he doesn't resist. He feels his balls starting to tighten, feels the restless buzz of impeding release under his skin, and speeds up his hand, breath coming in harsh pants that maybe accompany a chant of Stiles' name in his head.

Then a new image: Stiles again, the same jeans, sweater vest, and bowtie, doing this to him _under his parents' dinner table_. Derek gasps and comes in a shocking rush, harder than he has on his own in _years_ , so hard he slumps against the shower tiles, breathless and shaken, until his knees can support him again.

He rests his head against the slick, cool shower tiles and groans, this time from frustration. Maybe this dinner was a bad idea.

* * *

"Dude!" Scott exclaims, examining the bottle in Derek's hand. "This is John's favorite." 

Derek rolls his eyes. "Why do you think I brought it?"

"Are you trying to buy my goodwill, Hale?" the sheriff asks as he appears at the end of the hallway. 

Derek puts on his most sincere expression and holds out the bottle. "Greasing the wheels of progress, sir."

The sheriff takes it with narrowed eyes. "Melissa doesn't drink whiskey," he says. 

Derek holds up the Malbec in his other hand. "This more her style?" The sheriff snorts and walks away without a word.

"Dude," Scott says, laughing softly. 

Derek smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "How do you think I got Jen's parents to like me?"

Scott veers into the kitchen while Derek heads to the dining room, where Kira and Melissa sit at the table, Dewey settled on Kira's lap while the adults argue good-naturedly about nursery decorating schemes. They all smile and say hello when they see him, and Dewey calls out a gleeful "Hi, Daddy!" but no one lets his arrival interrupt them. Derek's not offended; his pack's the same way. When someone is so much a part of your life, their comings and goings aren't a big deal. He likes the idea of having that level of closeness with Scott's pack, as well.

"Stiles not here yet?" Derek aims for casual. Judging by the knowing looks Melissa and Kira give him, he misses.

"On his way," Kira says. "Claud's having a meltdown. He didn't want to talk about it over the phone."

"Is she . . . okay?" Derek asks, forehead creasing in concern.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell," Melissa admits.

A strange look crosses Dewey's face. She twists and presses an ear to Kira's stomach, a delighted smile lighting her face. "I hear it!" she cheers, beaming up at Kira. "I hear the baby!" She draws back and asks, "Is it a wolf baby or a fox baby?"

Kira smiles and shifts so Dewey's squishing her less. "Well, mostly it's a human baby."

Dewey twists and smiles at Melissa. "Humans are awesome!" She turns to Derek and points at Kira's abdomen. "Daddy, come listen to the baby."

The back of Derek's neck burns as he imagines sticking his ear against Kira's stomach. "Maybe later, monkey," he says.

"Okay," Dewey says and turns, unconcerned, back to Kira. "We have human kids in my class. I'm good at humans. Aren't I, Mr. Stilinski?"

Derek looks up quickly. Stiles stands in the dining room entryway, a half-smile quirking his lips, a hand resting gently on Car's shoulder. Derek's not sure how he missed hearing and smelling their arrival. Car is a bristling mass of unhappiness, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Her resemblance to Erica in a rage is breathtaking.

"You are _very_ good at humans, Dewey," Stiles says.

Dewey clambers off Kira's lap and practically runs across the room to Car. "Will you play space pirates with me?"

"Dewey," Derek warns.

"Will you _please_ play space pirates with me?"

" _Yes_ ," Car says, and Derek's never heard agreement sound so angry. She grabs Dewey's hand and hauls her out of the room. 

On the way, they collide with Scott returning from the kitchen. "Whoa, hey!" he exclaims. "Where's my hug?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Scott," Car says, voice shaking with both determination and suppressed anger. "No hugs for grown-ups today." She storms out of the room, Dewey forced to race to keep up with Car's longer legs and insisting that grown-ups are sad and need _more_ hugs than kids do.

Everyone in the room turns stunned expressions on Stiles. "What was that?" Kira asks.

Stiles drops, deflated, into the seat next to Derek and smiles gratefully when Derek rubs soothing circles on his back. " _That_ was Sara Bleeker's mom making yet another obnoxious comment in Claud's hearing about Boyd not being her 'real dad' and Greenberg not saying a damned thing in Boyd's defense." He rubs his hands over his face. "These kids, they hear things, you know? Things the rest of us never had to."

"I did," Derek says quietly. He remembers being Car's age. It was when he started understanding the things being said around him that most adults in his daily life didn't know he could hear. "I can talk to her."

Stiles groans and rests his hand on Derek's leg. "God, would you? I mean, I remember overhearing other kids badmouthing Dad because of his job and whispering about Mom when she got sick, but with her hearing, I just—it has to be overwhelming."

"It is," Derek confirms. "But I know tricks that can help her deal with it."

Stiles waves a hand toward the stairs, where Car had been leading Dewey. "Please, have at it. _Mi hija es su hija_ , or whatever."

The unintended connotation of Stiles' phrasing hangs over them until he bursts out laughing. "Seriously, you guys, I'm covered in papier-mâché glue, and my daughter wants to rage-quit the human race—which, if I can guess the shit she had to listen to Haley Bleeker saying about her father, I can't say I blame her, okay? I'm paying even less attention than usual to the shit coming out of my mouth, and you should go ahead and ignore it."

Derek chuckles. "I'll talk to her," he promises. He tilts an ear toward the ceiling and listens to the heavy-handed slamming of space-pirate gear, wincing. "After dinner. Give her a chance to cool down."

Stiles gives him another soft, grateful smile. "Thank you," he says, swaying closer.

Derek stares at that smile, remembering what Stiles' lips felt like against his and the warmth of Stiles' breath across his skin. He wants to lean forward and taste again.

A throat clears loudly. Derek jerks. He looks at a slightly amused, slightly horrified, and entirely too knowing Scott and feels himself turning red.

"Okay," Scott says with a grin, "I thought we could skip the awkward pining and go straight into dinner, but it looks like Stiles has finally learned to multitask, so let's do both." Kira and Melissa laugh, and the sheriff sighs. 

"I have no brother," Stiles says mournfully. "You are dead to me."

"Kitchen," Scott orders, rolling his eyes. "Help me dish up."

"I'll get the kids," Melissa says. "Wish me luck."

Dinner is amazing. Derek doesn't know how Scott learned to cook, but his food is delicious. And the atmosphere feels so much like his own table used to, when his pack and his family were the same thing. Derek and Dewey are somewhat on the outside, not knowing the language of their inside jokes and shared stories, but the others work hard to include them in the conversation and explain the things he doesn't get, and he and Dewey relax into the space. He's starting to feel like this family could become another home for them, and he's not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Dessert is cupcakes from Mama's. Scott apologizes when he brings them out, saying, "Isaac and Danny are the only ones in our pack who can bake," but Mama's has the best cupcakes in town, so Derek's hardly disappointed. He's especially impressed when the box makes its way to him and he finds a lemon lavender and a chocolate marshmallow, his and Dewey's respective favorites, waiting for them. Dewey squeals when Derek sets the cupcake in front of her, and Derek gets a grin back from Scott when he mouths "Thank you" over her head.

Derek pointedly doesn't watch Stiles devour his maple pecan cupcake in three obscene bites, but his neck feels fire-engine red when he reaches over and wipes a small blob of maple frosting off the corner of Stiles' mouth and the jackass tilts his head lightning-fast to suck the frosting off Derek's thumb. Derek's vaguely aware of awkward shifting from the other adults at the table, but his focus is on Stiles' dilated pupils and the way his voice sounds husky as he says, "Can't lose any of that. It's the best part."

"So, Derek!" Kira's voice is too loud, too bright. "How was your meeting with Alpha McCoy?"

Derek takes a huge gulp of water and clears his throat an excessive number of times. "Good. It was—it was good."

"Good." Scott nods. "Does she have any ideas for dealing with the DHO?"

Derek clears his throat again, this time out of nervousness. "She suggests banding."

Stiles whistles and flops back in his chair. "She does _not_ mess around, does she?"

"That's a huge step," Kira says, pushing her dessert plate away as though she's lost her appetite. Derek feels a stab of guilt about altering the mood in the room so radically, but Scott _did_ ask.

"Can someone explain banding to me?" the sheriff asks. "I've met Alpha McCoy and Alpha Frank and about a hundred kids that belong to their packs, but I don't get how it works."

"It's . . ." Derek searches a minute for the right words. "It's like when you and Melissa got married." He gestures to Stiles and Scott. "How old were you guys?"

"Fourteen," Scott says, grinning at Stiles.

Derek pictures the fourteen-year-old versions of the men before him, Scott all earnest enthusiasm and Stiles growing into his coltish limbs, lifelong friends and brothers by choice becoming brothers by law. He can only smile, too. "So, when that happened," he tells the sheriff, "each of you got parenting privileges over the other kid, right?"

"Not like they didn't already," Stiles mutters. "I swear Melissa grounded me more than Dad did, before they were even dating." Melissa smiles sweetly and blows him a kiss, making Kira burst into a quickly smothered laugh.

"But you kept your own traditions, too—you and Stiles, Melissa and Scott. And if there was a disagreement about discipline or permissions or whatever, the biological parent's decision took priority."

"Which is how I spent so much more of freshman year grounded," Scott says.

"And _I_ spent it in the back of a squad car, shut up," Stiles shoots back.

"That's kind of what a band is like," Derek says, ignoring them both. "Each pack is still its own unit and defers to its own alpha in a disagreement. But the packs make major decisions together, and any of the alphas can represent the packs or give the betas orders."

" _All_ the alphas?" Stiles asks. His fingers close tight around the handle of the fork he's been playing with.

"Well, two's the standard band size, but I've heard of them up to four—"

"No, I mean—" Stiles shakes his head. "So, in this case, Laura would be . . . co-alpha with Scott? Over all of us?"

It only takes an instant for Derek to see what Stiles is getting at, because it's the same thing Alpha McCoy brought up this morning. "Yeah," he says, and his voice catches.

Stiles nods, but the tightness around his lips and eyes is impossible to miss. "Better make sure everybody's on board with that," he says tersely.

Scott frowns. "Who wouldn't be?" His confusion is genuine; apparently no one in his pack's brought this up with him.

"Me, for starters," Stiles says instantly.

"Isaac and Danny," Derek adds, so Stiles will know they're on the same page.

Stiles nods, looking grateful, and then says, "Allison. Lydia." Lydia is news to Derek, but it hasn't been any of his business before now. Stiles points at Scott. "Liam and Mason, if you get off your furry butt and offer them the bite." He shakes his head and looks at Derek. "I'm amazed you and Cora have put up with it all these years."

Derek shrugs. "She's our sister, and she held our family together after the fire. We owe her a lot."

"Yeah, but at what cost?" Stiles asks. Derek doesn't have an answer for that.

Melissa is frowning. "What are you talking about?"

Derek sighs. "Laura has . . . she can be . . ." He spreads his hands, looking helplessly at Stiles. He _knows_ it's true, but saying it about his alpha and sister is hard.

"She's queerphobic," Stiles says. Beside him, Car bristles, and Derek wishes they'd sent the kids out of the room before they started this.

"She isn't—it's not—" The automatic defenses rise to Derek's tongue, but he can't bring himself to say them, because they're not true. His shoulders slump.

"Laura seems to think," Stiles says, voice sparking with a tone Derek recognizes as anger on someone else's behalf, "that queerness is a phase and that same-sex relationships can't last more than a couple years."

"I wouldn't—" Derek begins weakly.

"Every year," Stiles cuts him off, " _every_ year, when Danny and Isaac's anniversary comes around, Laura says, 'This is your third anniversary, right?' They've been together _eight years_. And she's not joking. And _do not_ get me started on the crap she says to Cora. To her _own sister_."

"What _happened_?" Kira asks. "It's 2021. Where would she get that idea?"

Derek looks at his hands, flooded by a hundred bittersweet memories. "I don't know how it happened, but somehow the only gay adults we knew growing up were Aunt Erin and Aunt Penny. We loved them, but they were . . . a wreck. Personally and as a couple. It was their personalities, didn't have anything to do with them being gay. But somehow, Laura got this idea that being gay is . . . immature, and she can't seem to shake it."

"Hasn't _tried_ to shake it," Stiles mutters.

Derek shrugs. "We kind of gave up trying at some point."

Scott blows out a long breath. "Derek, I'm not sure. I can't ask my pack to put up with that."

Derek swallows. "I'll talk to her. Cora and I can—we'll talk to her."

Scott smiles, Alpha Sunshine-and-Rainbows once more. "Thank you."

Stiles stands and starts collecting dessert plates and wine glasses. "Hey, Claud," he says, "it's a nice night. Why don't you and Dewey grab your jackets and play outside for a while."

It's 45 degrees and windy, and Car's expression says she knows she's being played, but she sighs dramatically and stands. "Yeah, okay, Tatuś," she says, holding out her hand to Dewey. "Come on, Dewey; the grown-ups want to keep stuff from us again." She glares hard at Stiles as she goes.

Derek looks expectantly at Stiles for a second after they're gone, waiting for him to say whatever he couldn't in front of them. Then Stiles huffs and jerks his head pointedly toward the door, and Derek cringes sheepishly as he realizes. Stiles doesn't want to talk without the kids; he wants Derek to follow Car and talk without the rest of them. He shrugs his apology and slips into the back yard, pulling on his jacket on the way.

Dewey, true to her nickname, is climbing the tallest tree in the backyard. Car's sitting on a swing, listlessly swinging herself from side to side, sneakered toes dragging in the damp grass. She snorts when she hears him coming but doesn't look his way. "What's wrong? They decide you're not a grown-up, either?"

"Hi, Daddy!" Dewey calls, waving excitedly.

Derek reminds himself that his child is a werewolf and not liable to do permanent damage even if she falls out of a tree. He waves back. "Hey, monkey. You're doing great." He settles gingerly onto the swing next to Car's, hoping the playset's reinforced for werewolf bulk, and turns back to Car, who's watching him with an unreadable expression. He nudges her toe with his own. "Stiles sent me out here because he's worried about you."

"I'm _fine_ ," she snaps, her heartbeat all _over_ the place.

"It's fine if you're angry," he says.

"I _know_." There's a blip there, too.

"I get angry when people say bad things about Boyd."

For the first time, Car looks at him quickly, and then away. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Your dad's a great guy. He helped me a lot when Dewey's mom died." It's barely a moment's pain to say, a rapid-fire parade of memories, not images, just impressions of a solid, reassuring friend who stayed out of his way when he didn't want to acknowledge the world and sat on the couch sharing shitty wolfsbane-laced beer when he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. "And I know he's a great dad to you and Vivi and Cory."

"He's the _best_ dad," Car says hotly. Derek hears the tears in her voice and smells the salt tang of them. "And I don't get why people are—just because I don't look like Papa—how would Mrs. Bleeker like it if somebody said stuff like that about _her_ husband? He's not even very nice."

Derek sighs and grabs the chain of Car's swing, hauling her close. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and holds on tight as she buries her head against his chest and sobs. "I don't know why people say mean things about each other, Car. I wish I did. But they've always done it. I used to hear things about my family, too. About my brother Owen, because he was really shy, or my Aunt Erin, because she was married to another woman."

"W-what did you do?" Car whispers.

Derek wishes he could tell her a heartwarming story of overcoming prejudice, but he has to tell her the truth, and not just because she would hear a lie. "There wasn't much I _could_ do," he admits.

"That's _worst part_ ," Car sobs. "I can't say anything to them. I can't tell them they're _wrong_ , and . . . and they're awful people and my Papa's better than _all_ of them. Because if I were a normal kid, I wouldn’t be able to hear them."

 _Oh, Car._ Derek's jaw clenches as he realizes that the real root of her pain isn't the slights against her father but her own perceived inability to do anything about it. There's no point in telling her that Boyd doesn't need her defending him, that his job as a parent is to protect her and not the other way around. He knows kids like Car because he _was_ one—old before their time and taking everything onto themselves, whether it's their responsibility or not. Nothing he says will change her mind, so he just holds her while she cries. He looks toward the house and isn't surprised to see Stiles and the sheriff silhouetted in the sliding door. He lets his eyes glow blue for a second, enough for them to see that he has her, for whatever good it's doing, and they withdraw, letting the curtains fall closed.

Car cries for a good five minutes before she peters out. Derek's shirt is soaked, and his back protests the choice of seats, but it's worth it when Car leans back, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and gives him a small, watery smile as she fishes a Kleenex out of her coat pocket. "Thanks," she says.

He smiles back gently. "Any time. If you want, I can teach you some tricks my parents taught us for dealing with stuff like this."

She nods. "Yes, please." She slides off her swing, turns toward the house, and then turns back. "You're a good guy, Derek."

"Thanks," he says, amused.

Then, because she is who she is, and her parents are who _they_ are, she waits until she's on the porch with the back door open before she yells, "You're gonna make a great stepdad!"

Derek hears Stiles' inventive swearing and the others' stunned laughter before the door slides shut. He closes his eyes, groaning, and gets off the swing to collect Dewey before she tumbles out of the tree. He's not getting out of here with his dignity intact; he'd at least like his child to be in one piece when they go.


	8. Season's Greetings from Dalí's Goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [the_wordbutler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler), because goat hat. And to everyone who's been supportive of me during my current bout of tumblr asshattery. Thanks as always to [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi) for her stalwart beta work.
> 
> Stiles' sweater? Totally [a real thing](http://shutupandtakemymoney.com/animated-yule-log-ugly-christmas-sweater/).

**_December 17, 2021_ **

"No, Greenberg," Stiles snaps as he pushes into the backstage area, "I actually _don't_ care what your wife's divorce attorney said today. I _do_ care that, with ten minutes until curtain, half the Round Table knights are doing nerve-induced potty dances, someone has dismantled Excalibur to wrap a light that will almost certainly electrocute us all, and Merlin is—Jesus Christ, where is Merlin?"

Stiles has only hazy memories of winter holiday programs when he attended Beacon Hills Elementary. He remembers Christmas pageants overlain with an unconvincing layer of secularism, as if you could put on a play about Joe and his pregnant wife Maria pulling their pickup into a no-vacancy Motel 6 and no one would notice the similarities to a certain nativity story. But now the school board president is Jewish, the principal is a proud secular humanist, and one of the vice principals is . . . well, Stiles doesn't know what religion the Hales subscribe to, but he knows it doesn’t fit neatly into a pew in any Christian church, so that doesn't fly anymore, thank god (pun semi-intended). Now the administration lets the teachers loose to create whatever child-friendly spectacle they can come up with, so long as it has plenty of roles for the little darlings of BHES.

An extremely sanitized version of the establishment of Camelot might have been a _bit_ ambitious.

Still, until three minutes ago, when the kindergartners and first graders playing the Round Table Knights all simultaneously discovered stage fright, he'd had everything under control.

The thing is . . . one of the parent volunteers is leading the knights toward the bathrooms. Kira's classroom assistant is remaking Excalibur. The light, death trap though it appears to be, probably won't actually fry or fall on anyone during the performance. But a missing Merlin spells catastrophe on _so many_ levels. Especially given the fine mist of magic Stiles is suddenly feeling drape over everything.

Stiles maneuvers among the knots of parents and students, asking the parent helpers if they've seen Merlin, fighting the magic that wants him to forget all that and come _play. "Gray wizard robes, black hat with curved horns?"_

_"First grader about yay high, wavy brown hair and a big gray beard?"_

_"Bright green eyes, super-judgey eyebrows?"_

Then it occurs to him that the parents wouldn't have noticed one kid among the masses. He tracks down a few of his own students, but they're either too panicked or too excited to have noticed the whereabouts of one classmate.

Stiles stands in the throng with people and magic swirling around him and yanks on his hair in aggravated handfuls. "Has _anybody_ seen Dewey Hale?"

Only, because the universe _hates him_ , he's asked this into one of those lulls that sometimes happen in even the largest crowd, when by chance every conversation ebbs at the same moment. Which means that, somewhere in the auditorium, an overprotective single werewolf dad has just learned that his kid is missing. _Well,_ _shit_.

Stiles' phone chirps, and he pulls it from its pocket in his animated Yule log sweater to find a text from Boyd _: i'll deal w/D. keep looking_

Stiles looks up and spots Boyd cutting through the crowd with supernatural grace and speed on his way to the auditorium. Stiles can only hope he gets to Derek before Derek gets backstage, because this situation _so_ doesn't need wolfy rage.

Apparently it _does_ need a nine-year-old dressed all in black and looking like a broody emo kid in the making—not that emo's much of a thing anymore.

The corners of Stiles' lips twitch, in spite of the gravity of the situation, as he slides his phone into his jeans pocket. "Morgan Le Fay, I presume?"

"Don't be dumb," Claud snaps; someone nearby gasps, but they ignore it. "You lost Dewey!"

" _I_ didn't lose Dewey!" Stiles protests, flailing his hands. "Dewey lost Dewey."

Claud crosses her arms, and if their predicament weren't so dire, Stiles would spend a minute marveling at how much she looks like Erica.

"Okay," Stiles says, "when's the last time _you_ saw Dewey?"

"It was, like, five minutes ago," Claud says. "Ze had to go to the bathroom."

Stiles winces. Any story that starts with "Dewey" and "bathroom" probably ends with "tears" and "magical meltdown."

"Ze wanted to use the girls' bathroom, but one of the shark moms said ze was in the wrong bathroom, and another one said she didn't know _what_ bathroom Dewey belongs in."

"How about the 'none of your damn business' bathroom," Stiles mutters. Eventually, he'll figure out how Claud learned "shark mom" and explain why it's an inappropriate term for her to use, but he can't be angry when, if he knew which women were involved, he'd be hexing them right now.

Claud shrugs. "They thought they were being quiet, but . . ." But not quiet enough for supernatural hearing.

Stiles rubs his forehead. "Okay, then what?"

Claud smiles proudly. "Dewey raised zir wizard's staff and said zir first line."

"'I am Merlin, wise and old/Listen up to what you're told'?" Stiles quotes. Yeah, he took Merlin's first lines from a mid-'90s computer pinball game. Because it's _awesome_. Only now it seems considerably _less_ awesome, because he suspects that some switch has flipped in Dewey, and ze actually cast a spell using those lines.

Claud nods. "Then ze ran out of the room."

"You didn't follow?"

Claud shakes her head. "Sometimes Dewey needs space."

Stiles empathizes, he does, but _he_ needs Dewey here, like, five minutes ago, before . . . well, a lot of shit could go wrong, some of it related to an angry werewolf dad, some to an untrained proto-Druid rampaging with a magic wand, and some to the rage of Principal Keel if the program starts late. Stiles doesn't want to think about any of those options.

"Have you tried the Batcave?"

Stiles doesn't know which star is his lucky one, but he's thanked it _so many times_ for Claud. "Does Dewey go there a lot?"

Claud shrugs. "I don't think so, but we showed all it to all the supernatural kids when the school year started, so ze'd know where to go." Stiles grabs Claud in a rough hug, which she bears with a lot of wriggling before grumbling, " _Tatu_ _ś_ "and pulling back.

Stiles grins and rubs the top of her head so she's good and staticky. "Thank you, Cloudy Day," he says fervently as she tries to squirm away. He scans the crowd, charting the quickest path to the door he wants.

"Hey, Tatuś," Claud says, catching his sleeve, "can I help?"

There's a better than even chance that she's asking to come with him. She and Dewey have this Ruth-and-Naomi thing going on; of course she wants to be there for Dewey. Stiles sees the advantage in it. He _also_ sees a first-grader having some unknown crisis, and the last thing he wants to do is put both kids at risk by exposing them to each other before he can figure out what the problem is. He smiles and squeezes Claud's shoulder. "Can you round up Vivi and the boys?" he asks. She nods. "There's a lot of stray magic winging around; keep an eye on each other and make sure nobody's overly affected. You'll be extra susceptible so, for now, I'm sorry to say, Andrew _is_ the boss of you." She glares, and he grins. "And can the four of you help keep the other kids in order? Especially the little ones. The later we start, the more they're going to panic. Can you be calm for them?"

Even though Stiles taught Claud how to do the Serenity Blanket spell, he will never get over his pleased surprise at how easily she does it, calm falling over her like an actual cloak settling on her shoulders, effortlessly attaining a level of control that took him a year of constant effort to master. Magical natives, man. She smiles. "I can do that."

He smiles back. "Good girl. And if Derek or your dad or Aunt Kira comes looking for me, tell them that you figured out where Dewey is and that I'm going to look for zem."

"Should I keep Derek calm, too?"

"Oh, Cloudburst, even your magic isn't strong enough for that." She's laughing as he squeezes her shoulder again and dashes through the crowd and into the back hallway.

Laura helped get Stiles, Boyd, and Kira hired at BHES for two simple reasons: one, they're damned good teachers; and two, they're all some manner of supernaturally inclined and can help handle the surprisingly large number of supernatural students who come through the doors.

One way they've come up with to help is the Batcave. It's a small supply closet near the second grade hallway that's been conveniently "out of service" since a month after the three of them started teaching here three years ago. Everything's been moved out of it and the light disabled, so it's bare and dark, its only contents a pile of blankets in the back corner, all black or gray so as not to overwhelm sensitive supernatural senses.

Stiles understands the ways it _shouldn't_ work, given the wide array of beings they're accommodating, but they've had zero conflicts over it, and it helps the kids a lot. Among the three of them, Stiles figures they've headed off a hundred meltdowns, rampages, and _epic_ sulks by having one spot that the kids know is always available, quiet and soothing and free of all scents except each other. It's even fostered several interspecies friendships and alliances that probably wouldn't have happened otherwise; making friends is a lot easier for kids who already associate each other's scents with comfort and safety.

Stiles' phone starts blaring "Foxy Lady," because he is _exactly that asshole._ He grins and presses the phone to his ear. "Kira! I'm almost to the Batcave. Tell Derek we'll have his wizard restored to him in two shakes. Maybe three."

"Um . . . okay?"

Stiles frowns. "Isn't that why you're calling?"

"I'm calling because I have two shark moms wandering around backstage looking for Dewey."

" _What_?"

"I don't _know_ , Stiles! They just showed up in front of me, demanding to know where Dewey is."

"That doesn't make any sense." Have the shark moms escalated to stalking and harassment? Are they mad at Dewey about what happened in the bathr— _oh, no._

"If you think _that_ doesn't make any sense, wait until you see them." Kira's voice holds a panicky amusement, like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or run screaming. "They're glassy-eyed and kind of feverish, and they keep saying Dewey has something to tell them, and they have to find zem and listen. _Zem,_ Stiles! Using the right pronoun like it's no big deal, and I am seriously freaking out."

_I am Merlin, wise and old.  
Listen up to what you're told._

Stiles is almost to the storage closet, which is a shame, because it means that if Dewey's inside, ze's just heard an impressive run of child-inappropriate profanity. He takes a deep breath and presses the phone back to his ear. "Okay, Kira, listen. If you can get to Claud without the shark moms seeing you, point them out to her and ask if they're the ones who were giving Dewey a hard time in the bathroom. Otherwise, keep doing whatever you were doing."

"I was keeping Derek from going into a feral rage in the middle of a crowd of elementary schoolers and their parents."

" _Good._ That's very good. Very important. Please keep doing that."

They're adults now—or at least Kira is—so she doesn't say " _Duh_ , Stiles," but he sort of hears it in her tone as she says, "You're bringing Dewey back?"

"As soon as I find zem," Stiles promises. "I'll keep you posted." They say goodbye and end the call. Stiles returns his phone to the fireplace pocket and squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He knocks gently on the Batcave door and calls, "Dewey?"

He doesn't hear a response, but that doesn't mean there wasn't one. He leans his head against the door. "Dewey, it's Mr. Stilinski. If you're in here, please let me know. And I don't have special hearing like you do, remember, so be loud."

The pause draws out. Stiles feels itchy under his skin and forces himself to breathe evenly. Dewey needs patience and understanding, which is why the twitchiest adult in zir life probably shouldn't be the coming after zem. But he's the best choice for a magical breakdown, which looks increasingly like what's happened.

Something's been triggered—a stick collected from the preserve with a gaudy fake peridot glued to the top and a wizard's hat made of felt and papier-mâché combined volatilely with a pair of insanely insensitive mothers and a child who should never have to deal with so much casual cruelty, and especially not at so young an age. Stiles isn't surprised the consequence is two women under a compulsion to listen to everything Dewey says. If anything, he's surprised the results aren't worse.

Stiles brushes his finger over the closed door of the Batcave. "Dewey, I'm not mad at you. No one's mad at you. The other kids' moms said hurtful things to you, and you responded. It could've happened to anyone. I just want to make sure you're okay and bring you back to the auditorium, so you can show everyone what a great wizard Dewey Hale can be."

And that's when he hears the sob.

He pulls away from the door. "Dewey? Dewey, _please_ let me in." He pauses but only hears intermittent crying. Tears start to prickle in his own eyes; he's a sympathetic crier when kids are involved, which makes teaching first grade a ridiculous exercise in weepiness. "Dewey, if you don't open the door, I'll have to use magic to open it, and I _don't_ want to do that." Because dear god, lock-picking with magic is _the worst_.

"I didn't lock it."

Stiles blinks. Looks at the door. Blinks again. _Oh, for the love_ —why must his brain needlessly complicate _everything_? He's been so convinced that Dewey's locked zirself in, possibly even barricaded the door, that he didn't think to _try the damned knob._ He shakes his head and curls his fingers around the knob. "May I come in?"

There's some epic sniffling—Stiles' other hand is already searching his pockets for his always-present Kleenex supply—and then a quiet, "Okay."

Stiles pushes the door open and takes a minute to assess the scene. He sees no smoke or flames. The room isn't flooded, and the blankets are all roughly where he left them after their last washing, not blown around or stuck to the ceiling. A promising start. He takes another fortifying breath and turns to Dewey.

He doesn't laugh, because he's a teacher and a parent and knows better than to laugh at a distraught child. It's a near thing, though.

Dewey's hat is a black felt dome with papier-mâché mountain goat horns curling down from the sides. It's based on Tim the Enchanter's headpiece from _Holy Grail_ , and it turned out so well that Stiles mentally fist-bumps himself every time he sees it.

It's not such a perfect representation anymore. The horns look like they've been melted, stretched out, and resolidified. One points almost straight down in a drooping curve that ends past Dewey's shoulder. The other follows its original curve for a few inches before veering out perpendicular to zir head, coiled tight like a spring. Merlin Ambrosius as interpreted by Salvador Dalí.

Then he gets a look at the tear-streaked and terrified face beneath the hat, and the desire to laugh dries up.

He's on his knees in front of Dewey instantly, holding his arms out to zem. "Monkey," he says softly. Dewey sobs and lurches forward. Stiles holds tight to his armful of tearful werekid, stroking zir hair and whispering soothing words into zir ear. Everything sort of contorts and merges in his vision: crying students, crying daughter, all the arms that held him through his own tears when his mom died. He realizes he's crying, too.

As soon as Dewey gets breath back, apologies start tumbling out of zem, too fast for Stiles to cease their flow. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stilinski. Daddy says to treat other grownups nice, and you said I'm not supposed to point the wand at anybody, and you spent _years_ on my hat—Erica said so—but those mommies said mean things about me, and I . . . got . . . so . . . _angry_ —"

The sobbing starts in earnest again, ugly, wracking sounds that shake Dewey's small frame and have Stiles trying to do every calming meditation he knows at once to keep his rage in check. He thinks of how furious Derek's going to be, and that calms him. Back in the auditorium, if Kira and Boyd have managed to pin him down this long, Derek's waiting for his kid to come back. He's counting on _Stiles_ to bring his kid back. Stiles takes a long, slow breath and lets it out. He sits back so he can look at Dewey and keeps his hands on zir shoulders, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on zir upper arms. He waits until ze's looking at him before smiling softly. "Better now?"

Dewey gives a broken-off, hiccupping half-sob but nods.

Stiles smiles wider and leans against the wall, drawing Dewey onto his lap. It occurs to some corner of his subconscious that, whatever boundaries he and Derek are keeping around themselves, when it comes to Dewey, the line between personal and professional started blurring the instant ze walked into his classroom and went on the defensive when ze realized he knew zir name.

"Okay," he tells Dewey, "first off, I want you to know that I'm not mad at you. Okay? About _anything_. Those mommies were mean to you, and that wasn't right of them. And it's my fault, too, for not starting your magical training right away like I should have, or asking Deaton, and no matter how many jokes I make, ignoring a problem _never_ makes it go away, and—"

"Mr. Stilinski?" Dewey asks shakily.

Oh. Right. "My point, Dewey, is that you're a special kid, and it's up to the adults in your life to help you deal with the special parts. I'm not upset that you did what you did, because you didn't know any other way. Got it?"

Dewey sniffles and nods. "Okay, Mr. Stilinski."

"Okay, good." He rubs zir back for a second, centering himself as much as zem. "Now, can you tell me _exactly_ what you did when those moms said those things to you?"

Dewey scrambles off Stiles' lap and stands in front of him. One small fist plants itself on a hip, and a shaking finger thrusts out toward him. "So, imagine this is my wand, okay?" ze asks. Stiles nods and gingerly redirects the finger away from his face and toward the corner. "I pointed it at the mean ladies, and I said, ' _I am Merlin, wise and old. Listen up to what you're told!_ '"

Stiles ducks reflexively, but nothing happens. No bolts of light or crackles of magical energy zoom out of Dewey's extended finger. It's almost a letdown. "That's really good, Dewey. I'm proud of you for remembering your line so well. Do you remember what you were thinking about when you said it?"

Dewey ducks zir head and shrugs. Ze reminds Stiles so much of Derek on those precious few occasions Stiles has been able to catch him off-guard. He smiles and touches zir hand. "Hey, Dewey. It's okay. I promise."

Dewey huffs. Zir gaze stays on the floor, but zir voice is clear when ze says, "I was thinking how stupid it is when grownups don't listen to me. Daddy listens to me. You listen to me. But . . . but other kids' moms and dads, and the lady at the grocery store, and Aunt Laura, and . . . and why don't they _believe me_ when I say I'm a boy, or a neither? I just wanted to go to the bathroom."

Stiles' heart sinks. He can't imagine what Dewey goes through every day, living in a world that barely wants to acknowledge zir right to exist, let alone make any attempt to understand zem. Every interaction must be a minefield, with no way to know if ze's about to encounter an understanding ally—or at least someone willing to make the effort—or someone who'll shut zem down, or try to "correct" zem, or worse. Stiles' admiration for Dewey, who stays true to who ze knows zirself to be in the face of discrimination and misunderstanding, and for Derek, who has never, to the best of his knowledge, tried to force Dewey to be or do anything else, triples.

He gathers Dewey onto his lap again, stroking zir hair back where it's escaped from under the hat. (Now that he thinks about it, the fact that Dewey's still wearing the hat is a wonder in itself.) "People get mean when they're scared," he says.

Dewey starts to wipe zir nose with the back of zir hand; Stiles hands over the Kleenex and gives zir a stern look. "Why are they scared?" Dewey asks. "I'm just a little kid."

"They don't understand you," Stiles says. "Most people are one gender their whole lives. Even people who are born with a different gender on the inside than the outside usually only change their outside once, so it matches. People aren't used to awesome kids like you, who are lots of different things. _But—_ " He takes Dewey's face between his palms and makes sure ze's looking him in the eye. "But that's _not_ on you, okay? You keep being who you are and doing what you do. It's up to the rest of us to catch up."

Dewey nods and wipes zir nose again. Stiles slides his fingers back to ruffle zir hair. It's long again, longer than Derek prefers to keep it. He wonders if there hasn't been time to cut it, or if this is something Dewey's putting zir foot down about now.

Stiles looks around. "Now. What happened to your wizard's staff?"

Dewey thinks a minute, face scrunched up adorably in concentration. Ze points at the empty shelving unit. "I think it rolled under there," ze says.

Stiles pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight. He lies down on his stomach and sweeps the beam beneath the metal shelves.

The staff has rolled almost all the way to the back corner. "I see it," he tells Dewey. He's just not sure he can reach it. He slides over so he's smooshed against the shelves and stretches his arm way, _way_ out. His shoulder protests, but he holds on and somehow finds one last half-inch of reach in him. His fingers brush the dowel rod he used for the staff.

His arm _burns_. He feels like he's being electrocuted. Heedless of Dewey behind him, he swears a blue streak and wrenches his arm back, feet scrabbling on the floor until he can sit up. He sucks at his singed fingertips and shakes.

"Mr. Stilinski?" Dewey comes up to him, all wide green eyes and concerned frown. Ze reaches tentatively toward his hand. "I can help with that?"

Under ordinary circumstances, Stiles wouldn't let a _six-year-old_ draw his pain. But whatever just happened hurts like a son of a bitch, and he's not sure about the after-effects. So he nods, pulls his hand out of his mouth, and holds it out to Dewey.

The room is silent while Dewey draws his pain. As relief washes over Stiles, he wonders idly if ze's done this before. He doesn't let zem take much, not knowing how much a kid can handle. As soon as he takes his hand away, he wraps his arms around Dewey and hugs zem close. "Thank you," he whispers into zir hair. Ze bears it with good grace for a minute and then squirms away.

Stiles leans his head against the wall and considers the shelves. He gets onto his stomach again and shines his phone light, which he's actually surprised hasn't shorted out.  With relief, he sees that he managed to roll the staff forward before he had to let go. He can reach it easily now. And now he's not sure he wants to.

Stiles withdraws his arm and sits up. "Dewey," he says, "when you said the words to the ladies in the bathroom, did anything happen to your staff?"

Dewey bounces in excitement. "Yeah, _totally_ ," ze says. "The whole thing glowed, and the stick part got _really_ smooth, and the gem changed color!"

"Wow!" Stiles says. "That's cool!" His mind races as he puts pieces together and tries to figure out what, _exactly_ , he's dealing with. He pulls the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and reaches for the staff again. This time his fingers find it easily. The burn of the contact takes him back to that time when he was four and stuck his spoon into the toaster, but it's muted now, and he can bear it long enough to pull the staff from under the shelves and roll it toward Dewey.

Dewey picks it up instantly, scowling at it. "Mr. Stilinski, did it hurt you?"

"I'll be fine, Dewey," he says automatically, rubbing his tingling hand.

Dewey holds the staff in front of zir eyes and gives it a look that is pure irate Hale. "Bad staff! Be nice to Mr. Stilinski!" Stiles _knows_ , with a choking certainty that leaves him stranded between hysterical laughter and straight-up hysteria, that that's what will happen. Properly chastised by Dewey, the staff will be nothing but nice to him from now on.

He takes a surreptitious look at the staff while Dewey continues giving it a dressing-down. It's not glowing anymore, but everything else is exactly as Dewey described: the dowel rod he picked up for 60 cents at the craft store is now a piece of driftwood as smooth as if it'd spent the last thousand years being washed by the tide. The fake jewel on top, which had been a sickly yellowish-green, is now a dark, rich, vibrant emerald green, a color that makes Stiles think of the preserve in a riot of summer growth. He's no gemologist, but he's betting it's an _actual_ emerald.

A green that color means he's dealing with _serious_ Earth-based magic. That answers his questions about whether Dewey's magic will be as strong as Jennifer's. He just hopes ze can learn to control it better than zir mother did.

Once Stiles gets the staff into Dewey's hand and zir crying under control, he feels safe returning Dewey to the backstage door. He texts a heads-up to Kira and Boyd and isn't at all surprised when the door flies open before he can touch it, revealing Derek in full papa wolf mode, clearly caught mid-pace and probably mere minutes away from a complete wolf-out. When his gaze falls on Dewey, his eyes flare blue as he herds zem through the door and sweeps zir up into his arms as if ze weighs nothing.

For once, something like a self-preservation instinct kicks in before Stiles can tell Derek to turn down the neon "supernatural creature here" sign blazing over his head. He gives father and child their moment and turns to find Boyd and Kira standing a few paces back, watching with cautious interest. He smiles wearily and walks over to them, nodding at Boyd and bumping shoulders with Kira.

Boyd tilts his chin in greeting. "Everything okay, man?"

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, which is tense and knotted in new and interesting ways. "Define 'okay,'" he says. Boyd snorts.

"What happened to Dewey's hat?" Kira asks.

Stiles makes jazz hands. "Magic!" They all grin at each other until Stiles tentatively asks, "How's . . . everything else?"

Boyd shrugs one shoulder. "Could be worse. Laura's entertaining the audience—she's good at it. Jordan's doing crowd control in the lobby. Erica and Isaac were holding Derek down until he heard Dewey's heartbeat, and then there was no way he was going to be _anywhere_ but at that door."

"Melissa's a godsend, as always," Kira reports. "She's keeping panic levels low back here. Timekeeping is a shaky skill for most of these kids, but they know something's going on and that we aren't on schedule anymore. She's helping everybody stay calm and not puking on our shoes, so that's great." She grins and gives a thumbs-up.

Stiles blinks. Somehow, he's forgotten that Derek would be far from the only member of the packs in that auditorium. Availability for the kids is a huge reason why so many of them chose professions with nonstandard hours. And with five out of the six kids involved in the production, that's a lot of parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles—and honorary aunts and uncles—who want to dote. The relief almost makes Stiles cry. He may be the only one who can train Dewey's budding magic, but the packs will give him any support he needs. He doesn't have to do this alone.

A tiny frown creases Kira's forehead. "Cora has the shark moms corralled for now, but we'll have to deal with them as soon as the program's over."

 _Right._ A pair of insensitive shark moms under a compulsion. The match that held itself to the tinder of Dewey's magic. He sighs and looks around. "Okay, right. Pageant first. Crazy compelled ladies after."

Kira looks suspicious about how calmly he's taking this—as she should, let's be honest here—but she nods and runs off to give Laura a signal. Stiles takes a deep breath, metaphorically girds his loins, and heads toward where Derek is crouched down, still aggressively cuddling and scenting Dewey like both their lives depend on it.

"Derek?" Stiles says. Derek growls softly and drags his nose behind Dewey's ear. Dewey looks about five seconds from trying to squirm away, family bonding time or no. Stiles narrows his eyes and pulls out his "do not argue with Mr. Stilinski" voice. "Derek, cut it out." Derek jerks away from Dewey. When he looks up, his eyes are glassy and unfocused. Stiles barely manages not to giggle. "Seriously, dude? Are you stoned on kid-scenting?"

"Shut up," Derek mutters, which proves Stiles' point, because usually his cutting wit is, you know, _cutting_. He forces himself to his feet, and Dewey looks like ze wants to do a dance of freedom. "What do you need?"

Stiles shrugs. Boyd is a reassuring presence at his shoulder. Having the guy on his side is still such a delightful surprise after all the time they spent fighting in high school. "Checking in. Making sure you're both okay." Derek nods and holds Stiles' gaze steadily. "Great. Okay, listen. We have an auditorium full of antsy people who'd like to learn about the formation of Camelot. Any chance we can have our Merlin back?"

Derek looks helplessly at Dewey, who pats his hand and gives him a solemn look. "It's okay, Daddy," ze assures him. "I promise not to point my staff at anyone."

Stiles thinks about the past five years, since Jennifer's death. About how it's just been Derek and Dewey, taking care of each other. They've grown up all right, both of them, and Stiles feels a swell of pride so overwhelming it's hard not to sweep them into his arms and promise he'll take care of them both from now on.

Derek laughs. He bends down and presses a kiss to Dewey's forehead. "Okay, monkey," he says. "Go shown them how it's done. I'll be right here when you're done."

Dewey's face scrunches up. "Silly Daddy," ze says, "you gotta watch from out there."

Stiles hides his grin behind his hand. No _way_ Derek's going to watch from anywhere but the wings, where he can swoop to the rescue at the first hint of trouble. But Derek takes a deep breath and steps back from Dewey, turning zem toward Stiles. "I'll watch from back here," he says. "Best seat in the house."

At that, Dewey beams like the ray of chaotic sunshine ze is, lays a smacking kiss on the back of Derek's hand (the only part of him ze can currently reach), and rushes up to Stiles to be led to zir adoring public. Stiles will never get over this kid. Five minutes ago ze was crying with hurricane force. Now the storm has passed and the waters are tranquil, without even a broken board or piece of sea foam to indicate the catastrophe.

The pageant goes off as well as can be expected for a program full of elementary students. Lines are bobbled. Lancelot bursts into tears. And when the Merlin enters, waves the staff at some squabbling would-be knights, and instructs them to "Listen up to what they're told," Stiles _feels_ the held breaths of every Hale and McCall packmember in the auditorium. But, true to zir word, Dewey actually points the staff upstage, and the bolt of magic that flies from it sizzles harmlessly into a plywood tree. The crowd gasps appreciatively, and Stiles even hears some scattered applause. People will talk for weeks about the amazing special effects in the holiday pageant.

As soon as the program ends, Laura leads Dewey into the hallway behind the auditorium, and Cora brings the shark moms to them. She keeps them on the other side of the door while Stiles crouches in front of Dewey. "Your Aunt Cora's about to bring some people over here. We need you to talk to them, okay?"

"What people?" Derek snarls. He's been calm since the program started, but now he's on the offensive again.

Stiles angles his body so he's more obviously facing Dewey. "Is that okay, Dewey?" Behind him, Derek huffs but subsides.

Dewey shrugs. "Sure, Mr. Stilinski."

Dewey tenses when Kira and Cora come into view with Haley Bleeker— _of fucking course_ —and Ghada Hassan. Derek's stiff and tense behind zem, ready to attack at the first hint of trouble. Stiles and Boyd glare at him, and he glares back defiantly. Stiles rolls his eyes. Let Derek see how easily his kid handles these women and maybe he'll relax.

Kira leads the women right up to Dewey—not that they seemed inclined to go anywhere else. As soon as everyone's face to face, Haley Bleeker starts blubbering about how sorry she is for not listening to Dewey, and that anything Dewey has to say now, Haley will _gladly_ hear. Ghada doesn't say much, but if she nods any more fervently her head will fall off. It's creepy and Stepfordesque, and Stiles feels awful about the women's temporary loss of autonomy, but if this is the way to break the spell, he hopes that _something_ of whatever Dewey's about to say will stay with them as a reminder to perhaps be slightly less reprehensible human beings in the future.

Back straight, shoulders back, chin high, Dewey reads the women the riot act. Ze explains why it's not nice to hassle someone about what bathroom they use and why they should listen and believe when a child says what gender they are.

Then ze starts talking, not _entirely_ out of nowhere but not entirely expected, either, about Claud and Boyd, and don't Sara and Rahil own their toys, not the elves at Santa's workshop who made them? Stiles is pretty sure he's the elf in this scenario. Dewey _also_ tells Ghada and Haley not to be mean just because they're jealous that their kids' daddies "aren't as pretty as Mr. Boyd." Stiles chokes, and Boyd's smugness is _adorable_.

When Dewey runs out of steam, Derek puts a hand on zir shoulder. "I think they've got the message now," he says in that gentle voice he only uses with Dewey.

As if it were the signal ze'd been waiting for, Dewey sags. Ze looks up at Derek. "Did I do okay?"

Derek smiles. "You did great, monkey."

Stiles crouches beside Dewey. "Hey, Dewey, do you want your first lesson in magic?"

Dewey's eyes sparkle, and ze doesn't look to Derek for permission before yelling _"Yeah_!" at a volume the human ear wasn't meant to handle.

When Stiles recovers his hearing, he says, "Okay, magic is like a faucet. As long as the tap's open, the water keeps running. So, what do we do with a faucet when we're done with it?"

"Close it!" Dewey says.

He walks Dewey through the steps of shutting down the magical flow and ending the spell. Ze gets it on the first try, and even as he's feeling pride at zir accomplishment and relief that teaching zem will be easier than he'd feared, he's man enough to admit a small measure of envy that Dewey, too, will easily master what he struggled to achieve.

As soon as the spell has been shut down, Ghada and Haley blink slowly and look around in confusion. "What are we doing back here?" Haley asks.

"I think you were looking for your daughters," Kira offers quickly, pointing out the knot of girls comprising queen bee Bleeker and her retinue.

Haley turns and walks away at once, without a word, but Ghada pauses and cocks her head at Dewey. Stiles holds his breath, heart in his throat. This is where they find out if anything Dewey said to them while they were bespelled stuck with them. But she shakes her head and says, "I hope we'll see you New Year's Eve, Dewey." She smiles at Derek, but it's a friendly smile, not a flirtatious one. "You too, Derek."

He nods. "Thank you, Ghada."

She looks next at Stiles, and a strange expression crosses her face, as if she's trying to shake an image from a weird dream. Her gaze moves on to Boyd, and she says, hesitantly, "Your daughter made a lovely Morgan Le Fay, Mr. Boyd."

Boyd gives her one of the brightest smiles Stiles has ever seen on him. Stiles manages to keep himself from doing a victory fist-pump until her back is turned.

Whatever else is coming—and it's definitely coming—at least it looks like they'll survive the ordinary stuff.


	9. Return to Book Brook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess what? New chapters will be posted on Thursdays for the foreseeable future, because no way am I getting up early enough on Fridays to post a chapter and still be at PT by 7.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings** in this chapter for mild violence and gore. Certainly not more than you've seen on the show, but it's definitely in there.

**_February 7, 2022_ **

**Włod the Impaler:** OMG WHAT DID YOU DO

**Me:** _What_

**Włod the Impaler:** your kid

 **Włod the Impaler:** did you just funnel sugar straight into his mouth when you saw him after school?

**Me:** _He ate what he usually eats, afaik_

**Włod the Impaler:** you sure?

 **Włod the Impaler:** he's bouncing off the walls here

 **Włod the Impaler:** (not a metaphor)

 **Włod the Impaler:** i know i make it look so easy, but magic requires focus and control

**Me:** _Like you're giving it right now?_

**Włod the Impaler:** shut up im the teacher

Derek snorts, but Stiles' texts worry him. He remembers the things Jen taught him about raising a magical child, and one of those things is strict limitations on caffeine and sugar. Dewey hates it, chafing at the restriction more than the loss, but it helps him keep calm, which feels more important than ever, now that his magic's really been triggered.

But who would've given him anything he shouldn't have? He's been at school all day. He's been with Stiles, who is, if anything, more draconian than Derek about enforcing the limits. Other kids' lunch boxes can be Pandora's boxes of candy bars and cookies, but Dewey is still at an age where he obeys the adults in his life, even when he dislikes their orders.

Derek sends a quick " _Sorry_ " that could apply to either Dewey's lack of control or his own snark and slides his phone back into his pocket.

"Problem?" Laura asks, attention mostly on the reports in front of her.

"I'm not sure. Stiles says Dewey's having trouble with his magic today. Wonders if he'd had extra sugar or anything like that." He sighs and rubs his forehead. "There are days I wish I could keep him home with me forever, you know? So I wouldn't have to worry about other kids slipping him contraband candy on the playground."

Laura laughs. "You make it sound like a drug deal."

"It kind of is, for him."

A weird, shifty look crosses Laura's face. A second later, a faintly guilty scent wafts off her.

Derek narrows his eyes. "Laura. What did you do?"

"She was hungry!" Laura blurts defensively.

" _He_ has snacks. He carries snacks with him at all times. Ones we choose together, so I know they're okay."

"Sh—he didn't tell me that."

Derek doesn't know whether to feel more aggravated about Laura misgendering Dewey or proud of her trying to correct it. Since he and Cora had the Very Serious Conversation with her about her lack of respect for the queer members of the packs—a long, _painful_ discussion that he barely likes to think about—Laura's been trying to respect Dewey's genderfluidity and pronoun choices. She just isn't _there_ yet. And maybe Derek's biased, because he lives with Dewey's fluctuating gender identity every day, but Laura does now, too, and he doesn't understand what's so difficult about it.

"Even so," he says, reminding himself to stay on-topic, "I told you. Stiles told you. It's in Dewey's record. Limited caffeine and sugar until he has better control, and _definitely_ none right before magic lessons."

Laura sets her shoulders, defiant. For a brief, shimmering instant, Derek's breath catches, because he remembers that posture from when they were young and Laura would fight with their parents. "I didn't see any harm in it. I made a decision." An _alpha_ decision, her tone implies.

Derek curls his fingers around the arms of his chair. "Laura," he says, voice tight, "Mom had _two_ rules." Laura's eyes widen, and then she looks away. "Laura."

"Packmembers support and protect each other," she murmurs. "Betas parent their own children." She turns her head further away, as if that's going to cancel his ability to smell the salt tang of tears.

"Yeah," he says softly. He gets that it's hard for Laura to think about their mom's way of being alpha. There was so much Laura wasn't ready for, that Mom thought she'd have more time to teach. "I appreciate that you're your own alpha and haven't tried to be a mini-Mom. But this is one of those times where you need to listen to her."

"It's hard." She turns back to him. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but she's almost smiling. "I love Erica and Boyd's kids, but Dewey is _blood_. I have strong instincts around taking care of him."

Derek smiles back, fiercely. "So do I."

Laura laughs and nods, conceding the point. "How bad is it?"

On cue, Derek's phone vibrates. He pulls it out and reads Stiles' new text. Shock and a little horror fill him, but he's intrigued, too, as he passes the phone to Laura.

"Oh, my god," she gasps. Now her eyes are sparkling with mischief as she glances at Derek across the desk. "Wanna go look?"

"Hell yes," Derek says. By the time he gets his phone back into his pocket, Laura's halfway across the office.

Derek gets a nasty static shock when his hand closes around the doorknob of Stiles' classroom—built-up magical energy—and he gets a bigger shock when he gets the door open and Laura shoves him inside. "Holy shit," she mutters at his shoulder, and he couldn't agree more.

As promised by Stiles' panicked text, Dewey's turned Book Brook into an _actual_ brook that babbles cheerfully across the ceiling of Stiles' classroom. Two-dimensional, brownish-orange bookfish exuberantly breach its surface, spouting water toward the floor.

Derek's braced himself for tears and hysteria (from both Dewey and Stiles). Instead, the two of them are in the middle of the room, Car to the side, everyone's attention trained on the ceiling. Though Derek smells a faint echo of recently shed tears, and Dewey's posture is drooping wearily, everyone is smiling now, and, as he watches, Dewey giggles at something Stiles says.

Stiles looks up once he's settled Dewey's hands into a position he approves of, and the skin beside his eyes crinkles as his smile widens. "Hey, guys!" he calls, waving them over. The worry that's been churning in Derek settles to ripples as he crosses to them; Stiles wouldn’t smile that widely if Dewey'd done something irreversible, right?

"Look what I did, Daddy!" Dewey says, hands waving so wildly at the ceiling that Derek has to catch them both in one of his before he loses an eye. Dewey's cheerful enough, but Derek doesn't miss the strain in his voice.

"I see," he says. On one hand, he's proud of his kid for having the power to do this. On the other hand, he's terrified that his kid has the power to do this. He supposes every parent goes through this, but most parents don't have to worry about upheavals on quite this level.

"And now I'm going to teach you how to _un_ do it!" Stiles says. This, Derek thinks, may be Stiles' ultimate weapon as a teacher: the ability to make the unpleasant parts of daily life sound as exciting as the fun ones. Stiles uses it on the pack kids, too, and it's the one skill he has that Derek envies.

Dewey pouts anyway. "But it's _pretty_ ," he says.

Stiles nods. "It is, isn't it? But we can't let anybody else see it, can we? Anybody from outside the packs. Most people aren't used to magic, and they wouldn't understand this if they saw it. It might make them scared, or angry."

Dewey's lower lip wobbles, and Derek readies himself to rush forward and stop the waterworks. But Dewey says, "Oh, those poor people!" and nods. "Okay, Mr. Stilinski. I can turn off the faucet now."

Stiles smiles and rubs Dewey's back. "That's great, Dewey. You did great today." He smiles at Car. "You both did. Okay, let's do it."

The most adorable squished look crosses Dewey's face as he stares at the ceiling. Stiles crouches beside him, not touching or lending any obvious magical support, but ready to leap to his aid in an instant, should he need it. Derek's heart feels so full he can barely contain it. And when Dewey curls his fingers and makes a motion like he's actually turning off a faucet, brook and fish slowly ceasing their movement and turning back into ordinary construction paper, Derek has to look away before he does something embarrassing like bursting into tears or sweeping all three of them off the ground and into some hardcore scenting.

When everything's been restored to the way it was and Dewey lowers his hand, Stiles stands and presses his own hand to the top of Dewey's head. He's pushing harder than Derek's comfortable with—Dewey, too, if the way he's squirming is any indication—but then Derek catches a faint yellow glow emanating from Stiles' hand and realizes he's literally grounding Dewey, helping strengthen the connection between the practitioner and the Earth that lies at the heart of all healthy Druid magic. The longer the touch goes on, the stronger and more alert Dewey looks.

Grateful and relieved, Derek smiles at Stiles. Stiles smiles back and blushes, and the yellow light flares. Dewey yelps and hops out from under his hand, scowling. " _Okay_ now, Mr. Stilinski," he says tartly.

Stiles stares at his hand. "Huh," he says absently. Laura looks between Stiles and Derek and snorts. "Okay, guys," Stiles says, recovering admirably, "that was a great lesson." His hand swoops down and, before Derek can warn him, he tries to tickle Dewey's stomach. There's a little blast of green light, and then Stiles is across the room and sliding down the wall clutching his stomach.

"Oh, god, Stiles!" Laura runs across the room to help him stand.

Derek crosses to Dewey to make sure he's okay. Mostly, the kid looks sheepish. "Sorry, Mr. Stilinski," Dewey calls.

"No, it's okay," Stiles wheezes. "No tummy tickles. Noted." He claps his hands together once sharply. Derek's seen him do it before, at the end of the kids' lessons, a signal that they're out of magical space, even while they're still in the room. "Who wants smoothies?"

"Me!" Dewey says excitedly, distress over magic brooks, tummy tickles, and throwing his teacher across the room immediately forgotten.

"I'm in," Laura says.

Derek raises an eyebrow, but Stiles, for all his hyperactivity, is actually a fairly precise person. If he extended the invitation while Laura was in the room, he meant to include her in it. Derek tries not to sulk, but post-lesson smoothie time has become the closest he and Stiles come to dates while Stiles is teaching Dewey. He's not eager to have his big sister crashing.

But Stiles smiles brightly. "Hey, fun. Let me grab my stuff, and we're out of here."

Derek and Laura go back to Laura's office to grab their own things and then head toward the front door, where Stiles and the kids are waiting. Stiles' "stuff" today consists of his coat, his satchel, and a length of industrial-grade silver wiring. He's still smiling when he comes back to them with the wiring wound around his hand, fingers closed over it, but the smile's taken a hard edge, and his eyes glitter with tension. "You guys ready?" he asks, and his voice is steel.

Laura's glance flickers toward the door and the world beyond. "Is something . . ." She lets the end of her sentence trail away.

Stiles shrugs, expression tight. "A little insurance."

 _Insurance against_ _**what**?_ Derek knows he should ask but can't bring himself to. Adrenaline floods his body. There's something wilder, too, the screaming urge to shift, to claw, to do _whatever_ needs to be done, consequences be damned, to protect his family.

Beside him, Dewey makes a small, worried noise in the back of his throat, undoubtedly picking up the sudden changes in the adults' scents. "Did I do something bad, Daddy?" he whispers.

Derek runs his hand down Dewey's head and cups his cheek. "No, monkey," he insists. "Nothing bad, I promise."

"Is this about the bad people who want me and Car?"

"It is," Stiles says, "but we're not going to let them take you, okay?"

Dewey nods, though he doesn't look entirely reassured. Considering what Stiles seems to think is waiting for them outside, Derek doesn't blame him.

They're halfway across the parking lot when Derek hears the rapid beat of wings. Then an ear-splitting shriek rends the air and something hideous descends from the sky. Dewey yelps and rushes to hide behind Derek's legs, and Car huddles in close beside Stiles.

"What _is_ it?" Derek yells.

"Cockatur," Stiles yells back, unwinding the silver wire until he's holding it like a whip. "Distant cousin of the cockatrice and twice as unpleasant to be around."

"Who sent it?"

"DHO. Has to be." Stiles flicks the silver wire toward the cockatur, which flinches back with a hiss, flapping its wings to let it hover above their heads.

Derek feels a prickle in his shins where Dewey's hands touch him. Dewey's drawing up magic. The "no" is on the tip of Derek's tongue, but then he thinks . . . maybe. If he has a spell ready—

 _No!_ He can't let a six-year-old child defend him. He nudges Dewey away. "Stiles!" he calls. "Get Dewey and Car to the car." He doesn't have time to grimace at the awkwardness of that sentence. "Laura and I will buy you time."

Stiles nods and whisks Dewey and Car away. He hears their protests but blocks them out to concentrate on the cockatur plummeting toward his head. He drops, readying himself for the attack. It never comes. Mere inches out of Derek's reach, the cockatur pulls up and flaps away. Beside him, another one has arrived; it buzzes Laura's space and then retreats with its partner.

Derek freezes, baffled. What's going on? Are they being attacked or toyed with? He feels like a mouse being batted at by a cat. And so far, they've focused on the adults, when they should be after Dewey and Car, if Dewey's magical flare-up drew them.

As they circle overhead like magical vultures, it strikes Derek that they're _waiting_. For some signal, event, or auspicious alignment of planets. Just like the DHO and the Adams pack are. Stiles and Deaton have scoured every magical book they have and contacted every magic-worker they know in search on a clue. Nothing. There's only the waiting, and it's driving Derek insane.

Which may be the point.

A cockatur comes at him again, but lazily, and he fights it off with equal apathy, not wanting to waste his strength. He feels a buildup of energy behind him—Stiles charging the silver wire with magic. Derek leads the cockatur toward the car, close enough to ensure the wire hits, but not close enough to put Stiles or the kids in danger. Stiles says something garbled and Gaelic-sounding, and the air sizzles with magical energy as the wire whizzes past Derek's head. He gets the sense that the spell was weak, but the wire must've hit one of the cockaturs in a sensitive spot, because it looses a blood-curdling scream and dives at Stiles.

Stiles shouts at Dewey—Derek could make out the words if he tried, but he's too busy staring in horror as the enormous, hideous creature flings itself through the air at Stiles' head. Stiles throws his arm up to shield his face, and Derek's feet unstick from the ground, pounding across the pavement toward the car.

Another sizzle of magic flies through the air. Derek doesn't know much about magic, but this bolt feels _different_. It's smaller, less developed. It feels like new growth pushing up in a garden. He slashes his claws impatiently through the other cockatur and has turned toward the car before it hits the ground—in time to see a small bolt of dark green light burst from Dewey's fingers as he yells in halting Gaelic.

"Dewey, no!" Derek shouts, sprinting forward and sweeping Dewey off the ground. Stiles yells it, too, even as he flings open the back door of Derek's car and shoves Car inside.

God, this is exactly what they didn't need. Bad enough that the DHO found the kids and is tracking their every move, but to have the exact measure of Dewey's magic revealed in a fight will allow these assholes to tailor their attacks. The news _can't_ get back to the cockaturs' masters.

The cockatur that Dewey knocked down is recovering from its daze, lurching slowly to its feet. Derek wraps his hands around its neck and twists, hoping that's enough to kill it. He looks up and sees Laura silently doing the same to the one he'd slashed at earlier.

He hears twin shrieks from inside the car and feels a moment of guilt that the kids had to see that, but he meets Stiles' eyes through the rear windshield, and Stiles nods in grim approval. Derek nods back, glad they've understood each other.

After he gets Dewey and Car calmed down, Stiles helps Derek and Laura hide the cockatur bodies. As he wipes the dirt off his palms, Stiles says weakly, "I don't feel like smoothies anymore, how about you?"

Laura shrugs, practical in the face of gruesome catastrophe. Derek's pretty sure that's an alpha thing. "I could still go for one."

Stiless' lips thin, but he lifts his hand to wipe sweat and grime from his forehead. Which is when Derek sees the red, jagged gash cutting across his forearm from wrist to elbow. "Stiles!" He stares at the wound, appalled.

"What?" Stiles follows Derek's gaze and twists his arm around. He stares wide-eyed at the cut, and Derek realizes he hasn't noticed before now, and with the stench of death creeping into their nostrils, it's no wonder none of them smelled the blood. But Derek smells it now, along with a growing scent of physical pain, and he has to bite back a whine at seeing Stiles hurt. "Oh," Stiles says softly.

"We need to get you to the hospital," Derek says, and he's not surprised by how rough his voice has gone. Frankly, he's proud of himself for holding in his fangs.

Stiles scoffs. "Come on. This is a cut. It's not that deep. The first aid kit at our place will do fine."

"When's the last time you had a tetanus shot?" Laura asks.

Stiles' eyes widen. "You want me to get a tetanus shot for a cockatur claw? They're not made of rusty metal."

Laura levels Stiles with an alpha stare, and he stumbles back against the car. No matter that Stiles isn't a werewolf or a member of her pack; that stare can bring _anyone_ to heel. "I've read a lot about cockaturs," she informs him, and he goes paler. "I know where they nest; I know where those claws have been. I'm not taking the chance."

Derek looks at the gash again, paying particular attention to the edges, which look ragged and dirty. He _hasn't_ done any reading, and now he doesn't want to. He's already fighting an urge to whisk Stiles off to some dark corner and curl protectively around him until he stops smelling hurt. If he allows himself to know exactly how much damage the cockatur might've done, he won't let Stiles get to the hospital.

Stiles looks between them. "You're not actually giving me a choice about this, are you?"

"You're welcome to try to leave." Laura grins sharply. "One human versus two werewolves. How do you like your odds?"

"I have magic." Stiles lifts his hands in a caricature of his usual spell-casting pose.

"I have claws," Derek says, demonstrating.

Laura waves her phone. " _I_ have your parents and your alpha on speed dial."

"You're both the worst," Stiles grumbles. He opens the back door and gently nudges Car into the middle. "Did you know they're the worst?"

"Eew, Tatuś, gross, what happened to your arm?" Car demands. "Are we taking you to the hospital?" Derek and Laura high-five before getting into the front seat.

As they're pulling into the emergency department parking lot, Stiles' phone vibrates. Derek glances at him in the rearview. "Gonna check that?" he asks. Stiles glares at him.

"Stiles couldn't _possibly_ look at his phone now, Der," Laura says. "He's too busy sulking." Derek chuckles. Stiles glares harder.

Derek and Laura get out of the car and stride toward the doors. Derek's aware of Stiles slinking petulantly behind them, Car staying with him in solidarity, Dewey tagging along by default of his short legs.

By a stroke of good luck, Melissa's working check-in. She blinks at them as they approach, mouth slightly open, looking more shocked than Derek thinks their arrival warrants. She looks between them and then behind them. "Hi," she says. "Is Stiles—"

"He's right behind us," Laura says, rolling her eyes. "He's being a baby."

Melissa's forehead furrows. "That's an interesting—"

"Yes, Claud, I'm _going_ , sheesh," Stiles grouses from the doorway. Derek turns his head and watches Car literally push Stiles through the doorway. Dewey's trying to help, but mostly he's just shoving at Stiles’ ass. Derek chokes down his laughter.

"Stiles, what are you doing here?" Melissa asks. "My text said to go your place."

Stiles frowns. "What text?"

Laura grabs his uninjured arm and hauls him up to the counter. "The one you didn't check while you were whining about not needing to come to the ER."

"They're not in the—" Melissa cuts off and looks at them again. "Okay, wait. Why are you here, exactly?"

"We got attacked by cockaturs," Laura says. "Stiles got hurt."

"I'm _fine_ ," Stiles insists.

Melissa yanks his arm forward. He hisses as she shoves aside the ripped sleeve of his button-down and examines the cut. "You need stitches. And a tetanus shot." She shoves a clipboard at him and waves them toward the waiting area. "Where did we go wrong with you two? Fill that out; you know the drill. Shouldn't be too long a wait."

"Thanks, Mel," Stiles says. Faced with a disapproving parent, his stubborn bravado has vanished, leaving an ordinary man reluctant to show how much pain he's in. He turns toward the chairs and then turns back. "Wait, what was your text about? Why did you think we were here?"

A bright smile breaks across Melissa's face as she hurries off to deal with the next emergency. "Scott called five minutes ago. Kira's in labor!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried writing the Derek-Cora-Laura gender and sexuality conversation, but it was long and painful and pretty boring to read. Maybe I'll tell you about it another time.


	10. The Miracle of Birth . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, head's up that this chapter contains vague yet unmistakable references to childbirth.
> 
> Y'all, basically we're on the roller-coaster drop to the end of the fic here. Chapter 9 started a run of chapters all set Feb. 21-22, and after that is (if all goes well) an epilogue and the end. Hands inside the car at all times, and enjoy your ride!
> 
> My thanks as always to gnomi-who-betas.

**_February 8, 2022_ **

"You know this happens every day, right?" Derek's eyes have that unfairly hot crease between them. _Everything_ about Derek is unfairly hot, but that crease is especially weird, because a worry line shouldn't be sexy. "Producing new babies is humanity's _job_."

It's just gone midnight, and Kira's entering her ninth hour of labor. People have come and gone from the house the whole time—even the other people who _live here_ haven't been around for all of it. Only Stiles has stayed the entire time—at least since his arrival from the hospital, newly stitched and pissed at the world. Derek's a close second, but he and Dewey left at dinnertime to bring back burgers and curly fries. Stiles almost proposed on the spot. Everyone keeps urging him to go to his room and lie down, but he _can't_. Certain things need to happen within the first hour of the child's life to welcome it into the pack and place it under their protection. Deaton did those things for Claud; Stiles will be damned if he's going to miss doing them for his first nibling.

So, yeah, he's nervous. Like, jittering around the living room and barely sitting still for more than two minutes at a time nervous.

Because this is _Scott's_ kid. Scott, who's been one of the most important people in Stiles' life since they were five and Scott tried to protect Stiles from Jackson's bullying. They've been through Stiles' mom's death and Scott's parents' divorce and panic attacks and ADHD and asthma and _the_ most awkward first date proposal in recorded history (Stiles still isn't sure why Allison said yes). Stiles saved Scott's life during the terrifying loss of control that came with his wolfy powers and the _more_ terrifying loss of self that followed his ascension to alpha, and Scott saved Stiles' mind when his magic started manifesting and he went evil!Willow over everything.

Now Scott's going to be a _dad_ , and Stiles wants to do everything in his not-insignificant power to make sure this baby gets the supernatural protection the two of them didn't have.

Boyd winks at him. "Now you know how Scott was when Erica was in labor with Claud."

Stiles doesn't argue, but this feels different to him. Because he's never _really_ been a father to Claud. Boyd is her dad; Stiles is that unfortunate schmuck who had bad luck with a broken condom. And though he and Erica and Boyd have always loved Claud with every fiber of their beings, she wasn't anything they'd planned for.

 _This_ baby is the result of a lot of deliberation and planning on Kira and Scott's part. It involved hours of discussion with the pack, a magical planning session with Stiles, and several closed-door meetings with Mrs. Yukimura that Scott had walked out of pale and shaken. Even before it was _conceived_ , this child has been wanted, and that feels like a high bar for Stiles to clear.

Stiles realizes he's pacing again when Danny speaks and the sound's behind him. "Stiles is worlds calmer than when Claud was born."

From her spot on the floor in front of Boyd's chair, Erica says, "Laura kicked him out of the house three times, but he kept coming back."

"The sheriff threatened to sit on him at one point," Boyd says.

"Scott _did_ sit on him," Isaac adds. "Didn't help."

Stiles glares around the room at his friends. "Traitors." He points in rapid succession to Boyd, Isaac, and Danny. "Erica had to drive herself to the house from school when she went into labor with Claud because you were too freaked out. _You_ have baby-proofed the house _three times_ because you don't trust anyone else to do it right, _including_ Scott and Kira. And _you_ dropped Vivi the first time Boyd handed her to you."

Danny scowls. "I didn't _drop_ —" He catches the identical glares Boyd and Erica are giving him. "Nobody told me werewolf babies are denser than human ones," he mumbles.

Erica bats her eyelashes at Stiles. "What about me?"

" _You_ are a radiant beauty who spent fifteen hours in labor to bring our child into the world and let me name her after my mom. I'm not about to tell everyone how many times you threatened to eat Deaton."

"Fucker!" she yells, laughing delightedly.

Stiles flops into the spot on the couch beside Derek that's nominally his when he can be bothered to sit in it. He butts against Derek's side, and when Derek's arm slides around his shoulders, it feels so _right,_ so _natural_ , that Stiles burrows in further and refuses to think about the ways this could crash and burn.

Because the thing is, it's _February,_ and he and Derek _still_ haven't gone on that one real date he was promised.

Mostly it's timing; between their jobs, Claud and Dewey's magic lessons, and preparations for the banding, now less than three weeks away, they haven't had time for a candlelit dinner or a lakeside picnic.

But the other part is that Derek's put the brakes on. He's gotten twitchy about them being seen in public together, and he won't show Stiles physical affection around anyone other than their packs. On the one hand, Stiles kind of likes that Derek's made a puzzle of himself. Keeps him on his toes. On the other hand, he'd really just like to climb Derek like the Pyramid of Khufu. He wishes they could _fix this,_ because he's tired of feeling like they're two ends of a rubber band that keep getting pulled apart and then snap back together.

Stiles is drawn away from his wandering thoughts when Derek licks his lips ( _How is that okay, Universe?_ ) and asks, "Am I allowed to ask how Car ended up with the name she did?"

"It was part of the deal," Stiles says. "I terminated my legal parental rights, and they let me choose her first name."

"But—" Derek frowns. "But she . . . she calls you Tatuś and spends weekends with your pack. She obviously _knows_ you're her biological father."

"Yeah, but that's Erica and Boyd's choice," Stiles says. "If they wanted, they could cut me off from her completely. And that would suck for me, but they'd be within their rights." He smiles at them. "They're the ones raising her so well. I'm that weird guy who teaches her magic and calls her silly names. When she was born, I . . ." His glance flickers around the room. They're friends here; his packmates, his co-parents, Derek. That doesn't make this easier to say out loud. "When Erica got pregnant, I was in a bad place. Self-destructive, more than my usual level of asshole to the people around me. It took a lot of therapy and a lot of studying with Deaton to control my magic before I felt like a baby would be safe in the same room as me." He smiles at Boyd. "If you'd had to choose a guy to be a good dad, and your choice was 17-year-old me or 17-year-old Boyd, you'd choose Boyd every time."

Boyd graces him with a small smile in return, and Stiles treasures it, because when it comes to anyone over age ten, he's sparing with them.

"The other thing," Erica tells Derek, "is that I didn't care much about the name."

Derek raises his eyebrows. " _Really_?" he asks. Stiles tries to high-five him for the priceless skepticism in his voice, but he either doesn't see Stiles' hand or ignores it.

Erica shrugs. "I was excited about the baby, but the name . . ." She shakes her head. "My family isn't big on naming kids after people. I looked through every baby name book and website I could find, but nothing seemed right. I figured Stiles could deal with it, since he had a name he gave a crap about."

Stiles appreciates that Derek doesn't ask Boyd about Alicia. Derek was in New York when Laura turned Boyd and Erica, but he _must_ know the story of a young woman choosing a path away from epilepsy and a young man trying to transcend the limitations of humanness itself, determined to use his new abilities to search for his missing sister. The mangled remains Boyd found were less than two months in the ground when Claud was born; even making "Alicia" her middle name had resulted in fights and tears.

Stiles hears uncomfortable shifting and suspects everyone's thinking about the losses they've suffered, losses they've slapped on their children's birth certificates and asked them to carry every day.

"What about Dewey?" Bless Danny for reading the room and trying to lighten the mood.

"What _about_ Dewey?" Derek asks. There's a challenge in his voice, but it's mild; he's willing to wait and see where Danny's going with this.

"I don't know you as well as the others do, but you don't strike me as a person who'd name a kid 'Dewey.'"

A soft smile crosses Derek's face. "I'm not," he says, "but Jen was."

They all make that reflexive flinch that always happens when someone mentions Derek's late wife, but Derek's still smiling, so Stiles hopes this is one of the good memories.

"When we started talking about kids," Derek says, "I said I'd like to name our first daughter Talia, after my mom, and Jen agreed. But when she was pregnant, she was sure she was having a boy, and she started researching whether Talia has any male equivalents."

"I'm guessing it doesn't," Isaac says, "or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"If it has any, she couldn't find them. But she _did_ figure out that Talia means 'dew of God.'"

" _Dewey_ ," Stiles says, beaming. He maybe turns to goo when Derek smiles back. Deep inside Stiles, something is _whimpering_ with how much he wants to cradle this tiny family and wrap himself up in it at the same time. Even if fate is cruel, and they never get to be together, in this moment Stiles knows he'll do whatever it takes to stay in Derek and Dewey's lives _somehow_.

"Well, I've always loved the name," Erica says. "It suits him." Derek gives her a small, pleased smile, and Stiles hides his face in Derek's chest for a second so he doesn't have to look. "And now, with that sappy crap out of the way," Erica says, "I'm dragging my husband to one of the guest rooms so we can sleep. The cars don't fix themselves." She glares at Isaac and Danny. " _Your_ car can only be fixed by offerings to the elder gods."

Boyd snorts. "They brought you that thing _again_? You ought to refuse to touch it."

"It's a classic," Isaac insists.

"It's a piece of junk," Erica says.

"That's why we bring it to you." Danny smiles sunnily. "Because you're the best."

"I own a garage, not a miracle store," Erica grumbles, but Stiles sees the slight flush in her cheeks that tells him she's pleased by the praise.

Erica and Boyd say their goodnights. When Derek stands and pulls Boyd into a hug, Boyd whispers something that makes Derek glance at Stiles and blush, which is unfair on so many levels. Then they're disappearing upstairs, and it's back to waiting.

Jordan wanders in just after one, which is weird, because there's no shift in the sheriff's department that ends at one. Cora and Allison are with him; when Stiles raises a questioning eyebrow at them, Allison shrugs and sits.

Soon after, Danny stands. Isaac rests his fingertips on Danny's leg and tilts his head up at him. "Heading to bed?"

Danny nods. "You staying up?"

"I'm on at three. I think no sleep is better than what I'd get now."

Danny makes a sound that feels like shorthand for "I disagree but don't feel like arguing." Stiles is with him; he's not wild about Isaac driving an ambulance and performing medical procedures on no sleep. "Get a ride from someone, please," Danny says. His fingers sift through Isaac's curls, and Stiles wonders which of them the gesture is meant to comfort.

"I'm a _werewolf_ ," Isaac protests. "I can get myself to work."

"And how will you explain how you got from our house to the rig without breaking a sweat?"

"I . . . left really early?" Isaac asks, smiling sheepishly at Danny.

"Do you have any idea how long it would take a normal human to walk that far? I don't. Because I would never do it. Nobody would." Danny tugs Isaac's hair lightly. "Come on. You haven't been a werewolf _that_ long."

Derek puts his hand up, cutting off the argument. "I'm on at three, Isaac. I'd be happy to take you in."

" _Thank_ you, Derek," Danny says fervently. Isaac echoes the sentiment with a slightly surlier tone, earning a glare from Danny.

At 1:30, Kira's dad shows up, looking bewildered and half-asleep. Mrs. Yukimura has been at the house for a good six hours; she periodically appears in the kitchen looking determined and mysterious, smiling like the cat who ate the Mona Lisa.

No, wait.

It's possible Stiles is sleep-deprived.

Ken points at Stiles, yawns, and says, "Noshiko says you're up."

They'd talked about what role Stiles, as emissary, should play in the actual delivery. A lot of magic happens at the instant an infant leaves the womb, magic that Stiles needs to be there for. But it had taken less than thirty seconds of debate for Kira to say, "No offense, Stiles, but I remember when Claud was born, and I don't want that in the room with me the whole time." They'd ultimately decided that someone would call him when delivery looked imminent. He'd wondered, at the time, how anyone would be sure, but he forgets, sometimes, how ancient and powerful Mrs. Yukimura is. She _knows._

Stiles climbs the stairs to Kira and Scott's room. Like he remembers from Claud's birth, there's groaning and yelling and people claiming that _"You're doing great"_ and _"You're almost there."_ Of course, "almost there" is a far cry from _actually there_ , when you're talking about babies being born, a fact Kira is tartly informing her mother of as Stiles walks into the room.

"Stiles!" Kira gasps. She's sweat-soaked and wild-eyed, whatever relaxation she'd gained from the long, warm bath her mother had her take when her contractions started long fled. She reaches out her hand, and he crosses and takes it without thought. He makes a policy of upsetting pregnant people as little as possible. She takes his hand in a crushing grip; he can't hold in his grimace, but he doubts she notices. "Stiles, the _pain_. _Do something_."

Startled, Stiles' gaze goes to the foot of the bed, where Melissa and Mrs. Yukimura are monitoring the baby's progression. "I left a baggie of—Mel, we talked about this. You said you were okay with—"

"Do _not_ yell at me, Stiles," Melissa snaps, not looking at him. "Talk to the big bad alpha who swore he could handle it with his magical pain-sucking powers."

Stiles stares at Scott, who hangs his head. "Didn't go how I expected," he admits, and his voice sounds trashed, like he's been shouting at the top of his lungs all day. Stiles notes his slumped shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes, as well. Shit, it's been eleven hours; if Scott's been taking Kira's pain the entire time, no wonder he looks like the walking dead.

Stiles leans over and squeezes Scott's shoulder. "Gotta let us help, bro." The house is literally full of werewolves. Any of them would've gladly taken a shift of drawing Kira's pain. "If you two do this again, we're drawing up a better battle plan than 'anxious werewolf father _kills himself_ from overexertion.'"

Scott glares at him. "Yeah, which one of us tried to build a pain-blocking spell when Erica was having Claud?"

"It would've worked, if not for you meddling kids," Stiles mutters before turning his attention back to Kira. "I can give you something for the pain," he says, "but it might dull your sense of when to push, so you _have to_ listen when Melissa tells you it's time." He puts as much authority into his voice as he can, and Kira nods frantically, right before another contraction tears a pained moan from her.

Stiles fumbles in the pocket of his hoodie (what? This has been going on for _eleven hours._ Damn right he's changed into flannel pajama pants and the softest hoodie he owns) and pulls out the baggie stashed in it. He's pressed the herb mix into tiny bricks, and he reviewed the composition five times with an increasingly frustrated Deaton, so he knows it's solid. "Here," he says, slipping one into Kira's mouth. "Hold this under your tongue or against the side of your cheek. Whatever you do, don't chew it."

Stiles watches Kira's mouth bring the compound to rest against her cheek. Instantly, the clenched lines of her face and shoulders smooth out. Another contraction rips through her, but she looks less like she's about to tear in half from the pain.

The next few minutes drag on in an agonizing blur of feeling helpless while the baby takes its damned time coming into the world. Stiles slumps against the wall next to the head of the bed and gripes, "A werewolf, two kitsune, and a Druid. You would think we could come up with a way for this to suck less."

Mrs. Yukimura gives him a short, tight smile. "Some things are beyond even our reach. Childbirth has always been one of them."

"Okay, Kira," Melissa says after what feels like an eternity but has probably been ten minutes, "it's time to push."

"No," Kira says, shaking her head. "I don't want to. It doesn't feel like time."

"Hey." Stiles pushes away from the wall. "What did I tell you? _Listen to Mel_."

Kira whines in protest but levers herself upright. "Up," she says. "I feel like—I think I need to stand for this part."

Melissa nods. "Some people find that helpful. Come on." She and Mrs. Yukimura help Kira to her feet. Scott hovers behind them, uncertain of his welcome in this moment, and Stiles shrinks against the wall, desperate to stay out of everyone's way.

Everything moves shockingly fast after that, or maybe it only feels that way to Stiles. Kira paces and pushes and screams, and then a surge of magic bursts through the room, so powerful it makes Stiles' ears ring, and another, smaller cry fills the room. He's been braced and ready, magically, and he senses the new magic greeting the old, young and curious as it explores the edges of its new home. The pack's magic welcomes it, and after moment the new magic relaxes into the existing magical structure with what he can only describe as a relieved sigh. Stiles slumps against the wall, shaking. For an instant, rage crackles under his skin at having missed this with Claud, but he lets it go as best he can to focus on this new life when it needs him most.

Mrs. Yukimura smiles and rises to her feet with a tiny, squalling mass of baby in her hands. She holds the baby out to Kira. "You did it, Kira. Come and hold your daughter."

Kira cries and laughs at the same time as she accepts the baby from her mother and holds her to her chest. Scott staggers forward like a man who's seen a vision. He wraps one arm around Kira and touches the baby's head with his other hand, tentatively, like he's afraid of breaking her. Kira rests her head against Scott's, and Stiles looks away to give them at least an illusion of privacy for a few minutes.

He's an uncle! In some ways, it's more exciting than becoming a father was. Becoming a father was _terrifying_ , swarming with visions of ways he could screw up this brand new life that somehow belonged to him and Erica and Boyd. Being an uncle means buying his niece loud toys, filling her with caffeine and sugar, and giving her back to Scott and Kira to deal with. That sounds like a gig he's less likely to screw up.

Things get perfunctory for a few minutes. Babies are a messy business. When it's done, Mrs. Yukimura goes downstairs to round up everyone who's awake, and Stiles goes to wake up the rest of the McCall pack. This part is optional for the Hales, but it's absolutely mandatory for the baby's own pack.

The crowd that presses in is almost too large for the room. Kira's parents and the McCall pack gather around the bed, hugging Scott, squeezing Kira's arm, gently touching the baby's head and arms and hands. The baby looks back with wide, curious eyes and curls and uncurls her fingers.

Derek, Dewey, Cora, and Jordan stand near the door, keeping witness as unobtrusively as possible, although Stiles sees Dewey straining to see through the legs in the room to catch a glimpse of the baby.

At last, Scott takes the baby, wrapped in her soft green blanket, and, cradling her against his chest, holds her so the room can see. "Everyone," he says, and his voice is soft, but it carries, "meet Ignace Yukimura-McCall. Ignace, this is the McCall pack. _Your_ pack."

A surge of magic hits Stiles again, softer this time, but no less powerful. This child _belongs_ to their pack now, named and claimed. Something settles in Stiles that he hadn't known was agitated, and he realizes the pack magic has been, for lack of a better word, _nesting_ for the past ten months, making a place for the new arrival.

Dad, with typical Stilinski finesse, breaks the tender moment. "After the town in Michigan?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dad, _no_. After Ignatius of Loyola, _obviously_."

He feels eyes on him and looks over to find Scott and Melissa staring at him with those twin perplexed looks he's been seeing since . . . well, all his life, basically. "After _Nana Ignacia,_ Stiles," Scott says slowly.

"Oh. Huh. Yeah." That makes more sense. It's brilliant, because it's their grandmother's name, _and_ it means "fiery," and if there's a more appropriate name for the daughter of a thunder kitsune, Stiles can't think of it.

Except that "Ignace" is the _male_ form of the name. And Stiles isn't going to be the guy to shake his finger and demand that girls have girl names and boys have boy names, but it seems like a weird variation to choose, if all they were worried about was not giving the baby Nana Ignacia's _exact_ name. "Ignace" is the _French_ male version, for pity's sake.

Stiles' head snaps up, and he looks at Allison, who's smiling serenely at the happy family. Jesus Christ. Did they discuss this? Did she know her alpha intended to give his firstborn child a French name to reaffirm the pack's continued commitment to peaceful coexistence with the Argents? He doesn't know if it's the ballsiest thing ever done or the emptiest gesture ever made, but knowing they _tried_ , that he serves a pack and an alpha who never stop caring, warms him.

"It's a good name," Lydia says. He hears the sincerity in her voice, even if he can't hear it in her heartbeat like the wolves can.

Stiles sighs. "Another chance lost to have a kid named after me."

"They were never going to name their kid 'Stiles,'" Danny says.

"I offered Włodzimiers! Włodzimiera for a girl."

"That's not a name," Isaac scoffs.

"It would be if they gave it to her! Seriously, what's a guy gotta do to get a baby named after him around here?"

"You could try delivering the baby during a blackout after an earthquake," Cora offers. "Worked wonders for me."

"I'm biased," Melissa says, "but I think it's a beautiful name for a beautiful baby. The other packs are going to be jealous not to have a baby like this."

The world rocks around Stiles. He throws out his hand for the nearest solid surface, which happens to be Danny's arm. Distantly, he hears people calling his name, sees worried faces wobbling in and out of his vision. He ignores everything and focuses on forcing out the word that _has to_ get past his lips. "Scott," he croaks. " _Scott_."

Scott's at his side in an instant, hands searing on his shoulders. "Right here, buddy. I'm right here. What's going on?"

Stiles draws strength from Scott's power and poise. He looks Scott in the eyes and pushes away his regret that his brother doesn't get even ten minutes of worry-free bonding with his new daughter. "We have to get _everyone_ here," Stiles says as steadily as he can. "Both packs, including Deaton. Including the kids. _Especially_ the kids. Wake up anyone who's sleeping, call in anyone who's at work." He grimaces apologetically at Isaac and Derek. "You're gonna be late today, dudes, sorry."

"Stiles, what—"

"The banding, Scott. We have to do the banding _right now_." He takes a deep breath. "I know what the DHO has been waiting for."

"What?" Kira asks, and her tone makes it clear she knows damned well what but needs him to say it.

"The baby," Stiles says. "They've been waiting for Ignace."

* * *

"Explain it to me, son," Dad says. They're in the back yard, rummaging through the shelves of Stiles' small, soundproofed supply shed for everything he'll need for the banding, He feels bad: a banding is supposed to be a _huge_ celebration, like a mass wedding, full of guests and food and festive decorations. It's not supposed to be a rushed and panicked middle-of-the-night affair with both packs squeezed into one bedroom. But Stiles will choose protection over flash any day.

"Okay, we've said all along that the Adams pack wouldn't make this weird deal with the DHO unless they got something major in return, right?"

"What _is_ the deal they made? I know the DHO wants Claud and Dewey, but why do they need the Adams pack for that?"

"Pure strength, I think. The Third Circle is powerful, but they're not physically strong. If Deaton or I take measures to counter their magic—which we _have_ —they're screwed. No, not that jar—the one next to it."

Dad puts down the jar of tiny pinecones in his hand and picks up the pine needles instead. "The Adams pack is hired muscle?"

"Basically. Check that box in the back for birch leaves. Also, don't forget they helped set the original trap, using Anna to get us out there. Which we thought at the time was to draw us out there to see what they were dealing with, but now Deaton and I suspect they may have . . . I don't know, tagged us somehow. Put magical trackers in our food or something."

Dad looks over sharply. "I thought you scanned for that."

"We could only scan for poison and magical spells of harmful intent. If Anna made them right, tracking devices or spells could pass as having neutral intent, and we wouldn't have caught them." He pulls a long rowan branch from the shelf and puts it in his basket, not in the least bit surprised that his hands tremble slightly. "God, I can't believe we were so gullible. That's why they needed us _there_ , close to Anna. We tested the food, but we didn't test _her_. Not for that." He snorts. "Maybe they told her they'd let her leave with us if she did this one last thing for them. And we walked _right_ into it."

"Hey. _Hey._ " Dad's hands are on Stiles' shoulders, and his gaze is firm and unwavering. "Someone was in trouble, and you knew you could help. That's how we raised the both of you, and we're damned proud of what you did."

Stiles blows out a shaky breath. "Thanks, Dad."

"I'm still not sure what Ignace has to do with any of this."

"Right. Okay, so, we kept asking ourselves what Deucalion could want badly enough that he'd be willing to get into bed with the DHO, when he's been perfectly clear how he feels about Druids."

"And the answer is Ignace?" Dad's skepticism rings through loud and clear.

"Think about it. I joked about wolves with extra tails, but we're talking about the daughter of a true alpha and a kitsune. Her power has the potential to be _staggering_. Deucalion may be obsessed with werewolf superiority and purity, but he's more obsessed with power. Iggy's gotta be like a rare earth magnet to him."

"Huh." Dad consults the list Stiles gave him and frowns as he lifts the bag of bells from their shelf. "But how would they do it?"

Stiles shrugs and roots in his box of chalk for a piece big enough for the marks he needs to make. "Best guess? They'll send in goons with low intellect—trolls, hobgoblins. Claim they're here to peacefully take Claud and Dewey for the education exchange, which is such bullshit I don't have words for what bullshit it is."

"Then when we resist, they send in the werewolves to help with the brawl."

Stiles nods. "In the confusion, someone grabs Claud and Dewey and 'accidentally' swoops up Iggy, too. Maybe the other kids, too, to make it look good. And then, also 'accidentally,' Iggy goes missing."

Dad turns and leans against the counter. "But what good does that do? If you know the Adams pack has her, won't you go grab her back?"

Stiles' stomach churns. He hasn't eaten since seven last night. The way he's feeling, he's not sure if he needs to devour everything in the house or never eat again. "That's what I'm worried about." He can say this here, now, to his father. With no one to see his potential breakdown but the guy who's had a lifetime of seeing him at his worst and loves him unconditionally anyway. "There are basically two things a pack like Deucalion's could want with a kid like Iggy. The first is to raise her themselves, teach her their values and make her part of their pack."

Dad snorts. "I've only met that pack once, but I'm having a hard time picturing them raising a kid."

Stiles nods and rubs his forehead. "Me, too. And that's a huge problem." He takes a deep breath and forces himself to say it, though the mere thought of it stabs him clean through and leaves him feeling like the world's about to collapse in on him. "Because the other reason is to kill her and take her power."

Dad's face goes gray. "Jesus." He glances up with a mixture of desperation and determination that looks like what Stiles is feeling right now. "We're not going to let them do that."

"We're going to try," Stiles says weakly. He doesn't feel very strong right now.

" _No_ ," Dad says firmly. His hand grips the back of Stiles' neck, and he stares into Stiles' eyes. "We're _not_ going to let them do that."

And, god, if sheer willpower could make it so, Dad would've just put his new granddaughter under a lifetime of impenetrable protection. If Stiles' laugh is wet and hysterical, Dad has the grace not to comment. "Yeah," Stiles says, "okay. We won't let them do that."

Dad nods. He squeezes Stiles' neck and then lets go, picking up his basket of supplies. "Come on," he says, "let's make magic happen." Stiles snorts and follows him out of the shed. Outside the door, Dad pauses and looks back at him. "You know you're crazy if you think Kira's going to let you call her daughter Iggy."

Stiles grins more genuinely. "You're crazy if you think she's going to stop me."

* * *

Someone (his money's on Lydia or Danny) has draped silk scarves across Scott and Kira's headboard and moved a vase of peonies from downstairs to Kira's nightstand. It's a far cry from the elaborate decorating Lydia had planned for the banding, but it's all they have time for, and it's better than nothing.

Ignace is an hour and a half old. She's been properly cooed over by every member of the McCall and Hale packs, half-asleep though most of them are, and it's time.

"Okay," Stiles says, looking around the room, "does everyone remember where they're supposed to stand?" Even before he asks, he knows who's going to say yes and who's going to say no. He sighs and starts pointing.

Once everyone's arranged where Stiles and Deaton want them, Stiles looks around, calculating. Something's missing. "Damn it," he mutters, ignoring the five kids who yell, "Swear jar!" He looks at Kira. "Your parents left? Why did your parents leave?"

She looks at him wide-eyed. "They're not part of this."

"That's why we need them." He pulls at his hair. "Remember how I said a banding is like a wedding? Remember I said that, like a wedding, we need outside witnesses?"

He would have guessed it was impossible for her eyes to get wider, but they do. "You want my parents for that?"

"Look, I know they're not our favorite option, but they're _right here,_ and we don't have time to wait for anyone else."

"You can ask them," Kira says, her flippant tone not doing a great job of hiding how much the situation unsettles her. "Don't be surprised if they say no."

They say yes. Mrs. Yukimura looks bored—Stiles imagines she looks bored a lot, as anyone might when they're an immensely powerful supernatural being forced to endure more than a thousand years among lesser mortals. Ken at least looks worried about his daughter and granddaughter's safety, though every curve and angle in his body telegraphs how uncomfortable he is about being sucked into this.

With everyone and everything in place, Deaton and Stiles move into the circle opposite their alphas, and the banding begins.

A charge runs through Stiles when he and Deaton cast the circle. He smiles apologetically. "Look," he says, "we've had this thing planned for weeks. Music and readings, flowery cross-pack declarations, the whole deal."

"Unfortunately, we don't have time for that," Deaton says. "The DHO is coming, and the Adams pack with them, and it has become imperative that all of you, and especially your children, are placed under the collective protection of both packs." He looks around the circle. "If anyone objects, now is the time to speak up."

Stiles sees disappointment in a lot of eyes, but no one speaks. Maybe, once the dust settles and the threat's been neutralized, they can redo it right. Like a vow renewal.

Deaton moves them perfunctorily into the invocations and foundational work. He pats his pocket a few times, and Stiles wonders if he'd written a speech for this part, a Deaton special-blend homily of one part wisdom and three parts incomprehensible mystical bullshit, about the importance of pack harmony and cooperation. When he's done, Stiles steps forward to lead the declarations of connection.

In theory, this part is easy, no special magic or effort required. People step forward with their counterparts from the other pack—alpha and alpha, second and second, and so on—and formally declare their tie, laying it like rebar in the gathering magic of the new band.

In practice, it's tricky. What connections are necessary to note? Deaton insists that every cross-pack relationship be declared, but it seems excessive to Stiles. Do Dad and Jordan really need to step forward and declare themselves boss and employee? How much does it help the new magic that Kira was Andrew's teacher and is Vivi's now?

And then there are relationships so _fraught_ that human language is insufficient to describe them. Allison and Cora have struggled with how this ceremony is forcing them to formally define their relationship in a way they've so far resisted, and what exactly can he and Boyd say about their relationship that doesn't commodify Claud?

Now Stiles is standing opposite Derek again, hands shaking and heart thundering in his chest, wondering how the hell he gets himself into these situations. It was easy, when they were sitting around the Hale house, or running into each other at Brewer Park, to talk about what they would say when the time came—if they were going to say anything. They're not technically in a relationship. They could skip this part and be within the strictest bounds of honesty. But Stiles is determined to fight for this. For _them._ Glancing over what's building between them feels disingenuous, especially in front of the people who've been forced to live through it for the past five months. Stiles _does not_ want to be the guy who lied in the middle of a banding ceremony.

Stiles looks into Derek's really needlessly beautiful eyes and smiles. Derek smiles back, the small, shy smile, and this is _stupid_. Stiles is 26 years old, for pity's sake, with a job and a kid and a passel of grown-up emissary responsibilities. He shouldn't feel like a teenager with his first crush every time Derek smiles at him. He clears his throat and tries to look like a serious adult. From the delighted way Derek's eyes crinkle, he fails.

Before he can do something immature, like cross his eyes, Stiles says, "I am Włodzimiers Stilinski of the McCall pack." (If Stiles hates one thing about this ceremony, it's how damned many times he's had to say his legal name.) "I name this man, Derek Hale of the Hale pack, as my intended."

Oh, _wow,_ he hadn't expected that to feel so good. It's an old-fashioned word, usually connoting an engagement, but everyone here understands the liberties he and Derek are taking. In all the conversations they've had about this, only that word felt right—an indication that they intend to be _something_ to each other, even if they aren't yet sure what.

Derek's smile widens, spreading across his face like a sunrise. It's a relief to have such obvious proof that Derek is as committed to this thing between them as he is, if the mere words make him that happy. Derek tightens his grip on Stiles' hands and says, "I am Derek Hale of the Hale pack. I name this man, Włodzimiers Stilinski of the McCall pack, as my intended." (If Stiles loves one thing about this ceremony, it's how unexpectedly sexy Derek sounds saying his legal name.)

Stiles' grin rages out of control while Derek leans forward and places a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. Claud groans dramatically, and Erica laughs. Stiles looks over as Erica wraps her arms around Claud, who struggles showily and then relaxes into the hold.

This is what a family is supposed to feel like.

They finish the declarations, and Stiles knows there's not a dry eye in the place when Cora and Allison name each other "my partner for life." They do the relationships involving the kids last, to fold them into a strong magical container. Iggy fusses, and Owen looks freaked out, and Stiles takes it as a good sign—an indication that the magic is working, and that the kids can feel it. Children are generally more affected by magical energies than adults, and Stiles will happily use these kids' reactions to gauge how things are going.

With the declarations finished, Stiles and Deaton step back to their places opposite their alphas. Scott and Laura have a ceremonial do-si-do about sharing power and respecting each other's authority, which he and Deaton repeat, replacing "power" with "wisdom" (because sharing _power_ has never been Deaton's problem). Then they go around the circle, and each person pledges something—claws, katanas, sick research skills—that the band can always call on in times of need. By now Stiles can hear the magic in the room humming. He can tell Deaton does, too, from the way he relaxes, a subtle and ever-present tension leaching from his shoulders. Weirdly, the werewolves _don't_ hear it, and it's strange, for once, to have his senses pick up something theirs can't.

Deaton and Stiles step outside the circle. They move apart and extend their arms, suggesting a larger circle that encompasses both packs. Their incantation is ancient and somber, out of keeping, in Stiles' opinion, with the Hale pack's close, loving bond and the McCall pack's hard-won cohesion. But this is an area where Deaton's been inflexible, insisting that, if they want this to work, they have to do it the old-fashioned way.

By which he means _really fucking old-fashioned._

It's hard to describe the change that comes over the room when they speak the ancient Latin words of banding, the way connections shimmer and snap into place. An uncomfortable pressure pushes against his body. But past that, he feels held and protected by the force of both packs, and his magic holds and protects both packs.

Looking around the circle, Stiles sees that _everyone_ feels it, even the "ordinary" humans. There's physical discomfort but also a deeper sense of connection. He waits for the humming to settle out, like the fading chime of a bell, before thrusting out his hands and saying, "Congratulations, Alpha Hale and Alpha McCall. It's a band!" The laughter shatters the pressing weight and restores equilibrium. He glances at Deaton from the corner of his eye, expecting a disapproving frown but seeing instead a small, pleased smile, and holy shit, he'd never imagined one smile could make him so happy, but Deaton will always be his teacher, no matter how far he comes in his own life, and he suspects he'll never stop trying to make the asshole proud.

They end the ritual and disperse the magical circle. Allison, Melissa, and Isaac run downstairs to bring up food, and Stiles slumps against the wall, watching clumps of conversation form.

"It'll be like this for a while," Deaton says. Stiles makes a questioning noise but doesn't turn his head. "Connections that weren't named in the banding—connections people didn't realize they had—will emerge, within packs as well as across them. Look." He points to where Danny and Cora are looking chummy, trading rapid-fire exchanges back and forth and frequently over each other. "I believe they're bonding over computers."

Stiles spots Scott and Jordan embroiled in a passionate debate about soccer. On the opposite side of the room, Erica and Lydia, who've historically only tolerated each other when circumstances throw them together, have their heads pressed together. Dad and Claud stand beside them looking vaguely horrified, and for once Stiles is glad not to have werewolf hearing, because he's sure he doesn't want to know what they're talking about.

"Are you all right?" Deaton asks, looking at Stiles' hands. Stiles looks, too, and is startled to realize they're shaking.

"Yeah, I—yeah." Stiles shoves his hands into his pants pocket. "It's weird. I was sure the DHO would attack the instant the banding was done. Hell, half of me was convinced they would attack in the middle. Instead we're standing around chatting and waiting for cake. My body doesn't know what to do with itself."

"Unfortunately," Deaton says, "your best course of action will be to maintain a constant state of readiness until the attack occurs. It will be tiring, but the alternative is far less palatable."

"What if . . ." Stiles licks his lips. His gaze shoots to the bed, where Dewey sits next to Kira, pummeling her with questions about the baby but carefully not touching. "What if I'm wrong, okay? What if this has nothing to do with Iggy?"

Deaton shrugs. "Then both packs will have band protection before it's strictly necessary. Which means that _whenever_ your adversaries make their move, you'll be ready."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Okay, I know you get off on the whole 'detached advisor' angle, but some 'we' thinking might help you here. Because even if the DHO leaves you alone because you're an emissary, I guarantee that the Adams pack won't. At least until this fight is over, you have to start thinking yourself as one of us."

Deaton makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "We'll see."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You're kind of an asshole, you know that?" he asks. Deaton makes another noise, even less decisive. "No, I mean it. You're, like, Dr. Standoffish when things are rough, but as soon as there's good times and cake, here you are."

Deaton opens his mouth, probably to defend himself, but Stiles sees Lydia break away from everyone else and settle in the window seat in the far corner, staring out the window with a pensive gaze. Stiles pats Deaton's arm absently. "Hold that thought for a sec, Doc," he says. If Deaton replies, he misses it, already halfway across the room. "Lydia?"

"Stiles," she says. Her voice is perfectly collected, and Stiles pretends for both their sakes that he doesn't see her wiping under her eyes. "Good work today."

"Thanks." He tucks himself into the small space left next to her knees. "I'm sorry we had to scrap your planning."

She waves it away. "More important that it work right than that it look right." She fixes him with a glare. "Tell no one I said that."

Stiles makes a lip-zipping motion, and she gives a small laugh and shoves his arm. "What's going on?" he asks.

She doesn't pretend confusion. "I was so sure Jackson would be here."

Stiles squeezes her knee gently. "If we'd had time—if we'd done it when we planned—"

Lydia shakes her head. "I asked. He said no. Even after I explained how crucial it was, he said he didn't think it was important enough to come for." She laughs in bewilderment. "I even think Scott called him."

"Lydia," Stiles says helplessly. His hands are slowly curling into fists at his side.

"London was never supposed to be _permanent_ ," Lydia says. "It was supposed to be—he was never _really_ in danger here, but his parents thought, and Alpha Rabiffano said he could—" She stops, collecting herself. "I think it's time to admit that he's not coming back."

"Have you asked him about it?" He knows she has. Lydia doesn't tiptoe around this shit, not with Jackson.

"He makes the right noises. As soon as tax season's over, as soon as the weather gets better, as soon as he takes care of one more thing. He hasn't been in Beacon Hills since Danny and Isaac's wedding. Didn't come for Kira and Scott's. His own alpha, and he didn't—"

"Hey," Stiles says softly. "You know Scott. Until Jackson formally petitions to leave us and join the Mayfair pack, Scott will hold a place for him here."

Lydia glances at Scott, who is _very obviously not listening to them._ "That petition may be coming sooner than you think."

Stiles' brain scrambles to assemble a vision of a life without Jackson in its periphery. He scans Lydia's face, looking for signs that she's devastated, but either they're not there or she's hiding them _exceptionally_ well. "Lyds . . ."

"I don't know," she admits. "I don't know yet how I feel about it." She casts him an unreadable look from the corner of her eye. "How do _you_ feel about it?"

Stiles spreads his hands. "What can I say?" he demands. "Me and Jackson, that's a lifetime of bad blood. I've never thought he deserved you as a girlfriend or Scott as an alpha. But that's never been my place to say." He rubs his chin. "Whatever happens, I'll support you. _You_." His gaze travels to Cora and Allison, whose eavesdropping is _slightly_ less obvious than Scott's. "And if that door closes, there are good people here patiently waiting to help you open another one."

Lydia's gaze follows his, and she smiles tentatively at Allison and Cora, who beam back. "It . . . might be a while before I'm ready to open that particular door," she admits.

Stiles shrugs. "I think they'll wait as long as it takes."

For a while after that, everything's . . . _nice_. Calm. No one in labor, no one under attack, no one's magic going haywire. Boyd and Erica join him and Lydia at the window. Derek brings him cake, and Stiles leans against his side, sighing when Derek's fingers card through his hair. It feels permissible. After the declaration they've made, it feels like the _least_ of what's permissible. It's enough to make Stiles forget for a minute that he's been up for almost 24 hours, but when he nods off in the middle of a sentence— _his_ sentence—Erica rolls her eyes and herds him toward his bedroom.

Stiles tries to play it like he's not dead on his feet. He bats his eyelashes. "Why, Ms. Reyes," he says in what would've been a flirtatious manner if a huge yawn hadn't swallowed the end of it, "are you trying to seduce me?"

Erica shoves him toward his door. "Been there, done that, got the unplanned pregnancy." Stiles laughs so hard he runs into the door jamb.

Erica helps Stiles out of his shirt and jeans and pours him into his bed. He falls asleep thinking maybe he was wrong about the whole thing. Maybe the DHO and the Adams pack aren't after them. His last conscious thought is that, in this instance, he'd happily be wrong.

He wakes up an hour later to every alarm in the house going off.

* * *

Stiles expects chaos, but by the time he gathers his supplies and rushes downstairs, acts are very decisively being gotten together. The weres are gathered in the kitchen, going over battle strategy. Dad and Jordan are checking their guns, and although Stiles sees an orange glow building in Jordan's eyes, it's a slow, controlled spark that won't fire up until he calls on it. He knows Melissa, Allison, and Danny are wherever the kids are, the last line of defense and also the best-armed. He doesn't have time to ask, but he hopes that if the Yukimuras are still around, they've been assigned to that protective detail as well.

Deaton's at the back window, peering into the yard. His frown makes Stiles extremely nervous. As he's heading across the room, Stiles spots Lydia, sitting on the couch, curled into herself. He tries to remember which group she's supposed to be part of, but when he looks at her again, he sees the way her lips are pressed tightly together, like she's trying not to say something.

Or _do_ something.

Stiles rushes to the couch and drops down beside her. "Lydia? Lydia, what is it? Do you need to scream?"

Lydia shakes her head frantically but then pauses and nods instead, with equal fervor. Stiles' blood runs cold. Lydia hasn't ceded an inch of control over her powers since high school. "I don't _know_ ," she whispers. "Everything's unsettled." She looks him in the eye, gaze piercing and unavoidable. "I don't know if anyone's going to die today," she says, "but someone's coming here with the _intention_ of death."

Stiles stares at her. Going into a fight with the _intention_ of death is different from going into it with the understanding that someone _might_ die. They've spent this whole time thinking their enemies wanted a simple smash-and-grab. If someone's _planning_ to kill one of them, or all of them, then either that someone's gone off-script or they've been looking at the whole situation wrong. He stands. They need a new plan. A new strategy. Nothing they've considered so far will be—

The lights go out.

The sirens cut out.

There's a sound of breaking glass— _upstairs._

Pandemonium descends. Everyone tries to storm upstairs at once, probably cursing themselves, as Stiles is, for assuming their attackers would play fair, would start with the adults and work their way to the kids. But these are werewolves and Druids; they don't need stairs or ladders or any other conventional means to access the second floor.

He realizes he's running next to Dad, who shoots him a tight smile with a worried line between his eyes. "You have a plan?" Dad asks.

"Shoot everyone who looks at the kids funny," Stiles replies grimly.

The sides are matched in numbers, which Stiles is grateful for until a glance of light off something in the back yard makes him look out the window at the end of the upstairs hallway. A good dozen more hulking figures lurk in the blackness. _Reinforcements_ —a luxury the band doesn't have.

He falls into the rhythm of the fight—first the hobgoblins, like he'd suspected, then the DHO. He leaves the Adams pack to the weres, though he slashes Ennis sharply with the silver wire when he gets too close to Scott, for the joy of listening to him scream.

It's a mistake. When he turns back the hobgoblin he was advancing on, it's gone—and Vivi and Cory with them.

"What the _fuck_?" Stiles screams as he launches himself at the hobgoblin who's advancing on Andrew. "They aren't even _magic_ , you fuckers! Who the fuck are you working for?"

The room erupts into a frenzied chaos that blurs in front of Stiles' eyes, impossible to track. But the kids—oh, god, the _kids_ —keep disappearing right out from under them. The hobgoblins are a distraction; a mechanism for plausible deniability later. The DHO is literally snatching the kids away with magic.

Burning off the spell he'd called up, Stiles reverses course and charges out of the room, grabbing Deaton as he goes. "Come on," he hisses. "I have an idea." Deaton hesitates a fraction of a second—too long, _too long, come on_ —before placing a well-aimed kick to the groin of the DHO member he's been grappling with and following.

"Stiles! Stiles get back here!" Laura yells, and the _sliver_ of Stiles that's not quaking in rage and fear is thrilled when the order pulls at him the same way it would from Scott. The banding worked. But he has a new plan, and he doesn't have the time to stop and explain it.

"What are we doing?" Deaton asks as he follows Stiles down the stairs.

"Whatever they're doing to get the kids out of the house has to be taking _enormous_ amounts of energy, right? If we find the ones doing it, we can cut off the power."

"What does it matter?" Deaton demands. "They have the children. Shutting off their power now won't do any good."

"It will if they're using the same magic to hold onto the kids." Stiles isn't looking at Deaton, but he feels the other man startle. "Come on," Stiles says, "you know those kids. Don't think for a second they'd go docilely with a bunch of creepy old strangers who stole them from their parents. There must be some magical hold on them."

"Too bad you won't get to test that theory."

Stiles barely has time to register the unfamiliar female voice before he slams full-on into a wall of magic so thick it's almost visible. He tries to pull back from it and finds himself stuck like a fly in amber. "What the fuck?"

A quick glance confirms that Deaton's stuck, too. The harder Stiles struggles, the more stuck he feels, so he stops and examines its edges and structure for weaknesses. He can't find any. "Shit. Whoever made this is _really good_ ," he mutters.

His reward for this observation is a tinkling, bell-like, and utterly psychotic laugh. "Thank you," says the same voice from before, "I worked very hard at it."

A figure appears in the back doorway, silhouetted by the harsh glare of the oversensitive motion-activated light at the house next door. Stiles can't make her out, but he catches the curve of a cheek, the arc of a smile. And, shit, he knows those features, has seen them most days since September. The newcomer saunters into the house cradling Dewey in her arms like he's still the one-year-old she left behind. Who the fuck carries a six-year-old like that— _oh right a crazy psycho **who's supposed to be dead**_ , that's who.

The scariest part is that Jennifer Blake looks completely sincere as she kisses Dewey's cheek and says, "Thank you for helping look after my sweet baby girl, Mr. Stilinski."


	11. . . . And the Intention of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Good news!** All chapters have been returned from beta, so I'm going to start posting **weekly**! Hooray.
> 
> Thanks as always to gnomi for being betatastic.

**_February 8, 2022_ **

Derek hears her laugh first.

He whirls, and the other werewolf he's fighting—Kali, is that her name?—almost gets her claws into his gut.

No. _No._

He shouldn't be hearing that laugh. He shouldn't be hearing that laugh _ever again_.

Derek whirls and punches up, ramming the heel of his hand into Kali's nose. There's a sickening crunch of bone, and Kali howls and grabs her nose as blood gushes from it. While she's distracted, Derek breaks away and sprints out of the room. He clatters gracelessly down the stairs and into the living room as Jen's saying something to Stiles, thanking him for helping take care of Dewey.

He's had this nightmare before.

She looks the same. Fuck. Jen looks _exactly_ the same. That's the first warning signal, flashing in front of his eyes with a giant fucking _arrow_ over it. _Jen looks exactly the same._ Five years dead, and his sharp vision can't detect a _single_ difference about her from the last time he saw her alive. She's wearing the same outfit, for god's sake. It should be unwearable, scorched and slashed and covered in blood.

Derek struggles to reconcile the image before him with the last memories he has of Jen. In the final moments of her life ( _You're dead. I killed you_ ), she was out of her mind, unaware of her surroundings or her actions, her eyes gleaming pure black as she held Dewey and the knife over the wooden bowl on her altar. That image features prominently in his nightmares.

God, he still doesn't know how he won that fight. He was hobbled by his instinct to protect Dewey, while Jen fought without restriction. He'd gotten Dewey out of her arms and tried to subdue her while he waited for the local emissaries to arrive, but she'd wriggled out of his hold, and he'd been sure she was going to come at him with her knife—he sees _that_ image in his dreams, too—but she went after Dewey again, gripped by a paranoid delusion which convinced her that nothing but sacrificing their child would keep them safe.

He'd been out of options, couldn't wait for the emissaries, couldn't do anything but kill or be killed—and let his child be killed. He can still hear the rip of flesh and the crunch of bone, smell the hot, sharp burst of blood and feel the texture of Jen's insides as he ripped them out. He'll _always_ remember how she looked, sprawled on the floor, streaked with her own blood and his, eyes staring up at him without seeing, the breath rattling out of her. That he acted in self-defense and in the defense of his child has never been in doubt, but he's both grateful and ashamed that no one, human or supernatural, has ever called him out on the _savagery_ of Jen's death.

He breathes deep, and it's hard to tell under the smell of Stiles' fear and the sharp ozone bite of magic and the sour tang of blood rolling down from the fight upstairs, but something is very wrong with Jen's scent. The base is the same: honey and lavender and fresh-baked bread, with that layer of mistletoe that always laid so heavily over her that it might as well have been part of her. But _under_ the base he finds something secret and rotten, like a decomposing rat you discover under the floorboards after it's been there for a month.

Before Derek can do anything—before he can gather his wits enough to _think_ about doing anything—Dewey laughs and kisses Jen's cheek. "No, Mommy," he says, "I'm a boy today."

"Are you?" Jen smiles at Derek. "See, babe? I told you I was having a boy." She nuzzles her nose against Dewey's cheek, and he giggles.

The sight and sound freeze Derek to his core. Dewey is a were _and_ a magic-user; can't he smell that something's wrong with his mother? How does he even know this is his mother? He was a week shy of his first birthday when Jen died; he shouldn't remember her this clearly. What has she done to him? Derek will _kill her._ Again.

"Today," Derek growls. "He's a boy _today._ " He focuses on Dewey, wolf instincts clawing and howling. "You okay, Dewey?"

"Of course he's okay," Jen says, irritated. "Mommy wouldn't let anything happen to her sweet baby boy, would she?" She goes back to nuzzling Dewey's face.

Protective rage surges through Derek like lava, because she would, _she has_. "I asked _Dewey_ ," he snaps. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Stiles' and Deaton's small motions as they try to free themselves, and at the very least he should figure out what the hell Jen's game is before he kills her ( _again_ ). So instead of shifting and attacking like he wants, Derek settles for taking a single step into the room.

Jen looks up sharply. "Oh, babe, don't. Dewey doesn't want to see his daddy stuck in a magic wall, does he?" She tickles Dewey's stomach, and he giggles. He _giggles._

Derek stops moving, but with every second that passes, his control becomes more tenuous. She's bespelled Dewey. She's not dead, and she's trapped Stiles, and she smells like death, and she's had to bespell her own child to get him to like her.

He's pretty embarrassed about not having noticed he had married a crazy woman.

"Jen," he begins, tentatively, completely unsure what comes next.

She cuts him off anyway. "It's Julia now. Or rather, again. Julia Baccari. That was my name a long time ago—sorry I never mentioned it when we were married. I had to give it up after an . . . incident with my old pack. But once I died and the DHO brought me back, I grabbed the chance to take it back. New life, old life; it's all part of the same cycle." She's looking away from Derek, but he sees the sharpness in her gaze. "By the way, I'm still sore about you killing me."

"You were trying to _kill Dewey_." He hates saying it in front of Dewey, but Jen (she'll always be Jen to him) has lost sight of the salient point here.

"A misunderstanding," she says, and when her heartbeat doesn't fluctuate, Derek realizes it hasn't varied the entire time he's been down here. Not when she saw Derek, not while she was laughing and tickling Dewey. It's as steady as a metronome. Not like a human heart at all.

"What _are_ you?" he asks.

Jen's lips curl up in a cold smile. "Not someone you want to piss off, babe, that's for sure."

"Whatever the DHO promised you," Stiles' voice cuts in, "they can't deliver."

"The DHO and I have a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship, Emissary Stilinski," Jen says. "Like mistletoe and a host tree."

"Mistletoe is a parasite," Deaton says. "It saps energy and resources from its host tree, stressing it beyond what it can bear and killing it."

"Thank you, Emissary Deaton," Jen says with the exasperated familiarity of someone who's dealt with his brand of "wisdom" before. "I never would have known that if you hadn't explained it in a slow and condescending tone of voice, as if I were a child."

"Lady," Stiles scoffs, "I work with kids. I'd be embarrassed to put you in the same category as them for any reason."

Jen gives first Stiles and then Derek a look dripping with disdain. "Really, Derek?" she asks. " _This_ is the person who's replaced me in your affections?"

"He didn't have to _replace_ you," Derek says, fighting nausea. "He's made his own place." He wants to say that Stiles has made a _better_ place than the one Jen left behind, but a suspiciously Stilesian voice in his head recommends that he not aggravate the crazy undead lady who's holding his kid, even though the real Stiles has no problem doing exactly that.

Jen pouts. "I was hoping you'd wait for me," she says.

Derek got caught in a powerful undertow when he was ten. He knew he was a strong enough swimmer to survive, but the _confusion_ he felt when he got his head above water, the way he'd gotten turned around with no sense of how far he'd come or which way the shore was—he feels the same now. "You were _dead_."

She shrugs. "Didn't take. They told me not to contact you—"

" _Who_ told you?" Stiles demands.

Jen ignores him. "—but it was hard, seeing you with other people. The one-night stands were rough enough, but when you started dating Marco I—"

"Don't talk about Marco," Derek hisses. He and Marco parted on rocky terms, but the relationship didn't end with Derek _having to kill him,_ so as far as he's concerned, it's worlds ahead of his marriage. Jen doesn't deserve to talk about Marco.

"Whatever. Boring." Jen waves her hand. "I want to talk about this wonderful boy and the delicious magical power flowing through him. Seriously, Derek, do you have _any_ idea what he can do?"

Derek thinks of a sniffling child in a melted Merlin hat and barely stops himself from asking, "Do _you_?" If Jen underestimates Dewey's abilities, or thinks Derek's underestimating them, can he and Stiles turn that to their advantage? He puts on his best doting father face. "He's my special little guy!" he says. Inside the magic barrier, Stiles barely turns a snort of laughter into a believable cough.

Jen studies them for a minute and makes a dismissive noise. She's not here for them; her focus is Dewey, whose chin she's now tickling. "He sure is. And we're going to have amazing adventures together, aren't we?"

Once again, her heartbeat doesn't waver. But Derek knows— _knows_ with the same certainty as he knew Paige was going to die and Kate Argent couldn't be trusted—that she's lying. Whatever she's planning for Dewey, it _does not_ involve amazing adventures.

"Yeah?" he asks. He's aiming for casual, though he's no longer certain that's the right approach. "What adventures?"

Jen smiles enigmatically and smoothes Dewey's hair. "The kind stick-in-the-mud werewolf daddies don't understand, do they, Dewey?"

If Derek had had any uncertainty left about Jen's magical interference with Dewey, it's erased when Dewey laughs brightly, unconcerned by hearing Derek called a stick in the mud. It's not the first time someone's accused Derek of that. It _is_ the first time Dewey hasn't defended him.

And _fuck casual._ It's never been his style. Derek snarls and lets his shift overtake him, and his claws and fangs aren't done extending before he's leaping at Jen, hands curled in a grotesque reenactment of their last moments together.

This time she's ready. He makes it less than a foot before he's enveloped in sticky, unyielding energy—the same energy trapping Stiles and Deaton. He snaps and snarls, but it's no use. He's stuck fast; he can't defeat this enemy with his claws.

Jen _tsks_. "Oh, Derek, I thought we were on the same page here."

"About _killing Dewey_?" Derek doesn't know how he knows this, but it's a bone-deep certainty, curdling in his gut.

Jen pauses. It's the most genuine reaction he's seen out of her yet. "You know," she says conversationally, "I was angry with you for a long time for interrupting my sacrifice the first time around. Then Kali called and told me you and Dewey were back in Hale territory and that Dewey had developed a lot of magic. And I realized how much better it would be this way. So thank you, Derek. Thank you for offering me power beyond my wildest imaginings." She kisses the side of Dewey's head, and if Derek could move even _one_ of his fingers, Jen would be dead. "We're going to change the world. Aren't we, monkey?"

There's a flash of green-tinged light and a reverberating pop. Derek falls to the floor. When he recovers enough to look around, Jen and Dewey are gone.

Derek howls, his longest, loudest, most mournful howl of his _life_ , more than when the fire stole his family.

Dewey doesn't howl back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you next week.


	12. Like Turning on a Faucet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those "kitchen sink" chapters that covers a _lot_ of ground. Enjoy the ride!
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings:** Violence, child endangerment, minor character death

**_February 8, 2022_ **

Stiles has barely picked himself up off the floor when pretty much the entire rest of the band clatters down the stairs. Scott detaches from the head of the swarm and vaults the couch, grabbing Stiles' arms and hauling him to his feet in a motion at once gentle and no-nonsense. "What happened?"

"Where were you?" Stiles gasps, staring around the room. "Where were _any_ of you?"

"Frozen," Erica spits. "Trapped in some magical energy . . . _thing._ I _hate_ magic-users."

"Thanks," Stiles says, though her comment reminds him to check on Deaton, who's getting slowly to his feet with Isaac and Danny's help.

"You weren't there, okay?" Laura says. "The kids are gone, Stiles. _All_ of them. And then everyone we were fighting _vanished,_ and we couldn't move. And—" She looks nervously at Derek. "And I could've sworn I heard—"

"You did," Derek says. His voice is brittle and flat, and he's leaning heavily against Jordan as Jordan leads him to the couch.

Stiles' emotions are a big, knotted ball that he can't deal with now. He wants to gather Derek into his arms and hide him from everything in this world that could hurt him. But there's no _time_ , and, judging from the way Derek's drawn in on himself, knees slightly raised and arms wrapped tight around his chest, he wouldn't take the comfort Stiles can offer him, anyway.

"I thought she was dead," Melissa says.

"She is." Derek frowns, shakes his head. "Was." He looks helplessly at Stiles. "Is? I don't—she didn't smell right. Didn't sound right. I looked at her, she talked to me, but she didn't seem . . . alive." The last word barely has sound.

"Reanimation magic is the hardest there is," Deaton says quietly. Stiles has seen Deaton in many moods over the years, but he's never seen rage like this, burning with a quiet flame that promises to destroy everything in its path. "What we saw wasn't Ms. Blake. Not as you remember her."

"Baccari," Stiles says absently. Everyone turns to him. "She said her real name was Julia Baccari." Stiles' mind zooms in with laser focus. This whole situation is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but now it's also a puzzle, and he excels at puzzles. He goes around the end of the couch and crouches in front of Derek, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Hey," he says softly. Eyes shut tight, Derek turns his face into Stiles' hand and makes a pained sound. "I've gotta ask you some questions, okay? They're going to seem hideously invasive, and some of them, you might not understand what they have to do with what's happening, but I need you to answer as honestly as you can, okay?"

Derek opens unfocused eyes at Stiles. "Stiles, what—" Stiles wonders how much he's registered anyone else's presence until this moment.

"Can you do that?" Stiles asks. He has to stay focused. Get the kids back, stop the bad guys, and _then_ make sure Derek's not going to fall apart on them. "Can you answer my really weird questions?"

Derek sits up, drawing his face away from Stiles' hand, which Stiles flexes a few times before letting it fall to rest in his own lap. He watches in fascination as Derek pulls himself together. He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair, takes several deep breaths, and clearly compartmentalizes _"My crazy dead wife isn't as dead as I'd thought_ " for later contemplation and freak-out. "What do you want to know?"

Stiles pushes to his feet and settles next to Derek on the couch, twisting to face him. "Is it possible Jennifer was the Adams pack's emissary? Before. When you were married."

"Anything's _possible_ ," Derek says with a helpless shrug. "Jen didn't talk about that part of her life. I knew she was a Druid right away, but I didn't know she was an emissary until we were engaged. She never said what pack."

That's disappointing but about what Stiles expected. He's pretty sure he's right, anyway. He takes a breath, bracing himself for what he has to ask next. "When you told me about Paige—" He hears a cut-off gasp behind him, either Laura or Cora. "—you said something about your uncle and a cellar."

Derek's eyes widen. "Stiles, that couldn't _possibly_ —"

"Hey," Stiles says in the compassionate-but-unyielding tone he often uses on his students, "you promised you'd try."

It's Cora who answers, tucked against Allison's side, arms crossed over her chest. "The old root cellar. Out in the woods. It was dark and cramped, and there were so many actual roots in it you could barely see, or move. It terrified Owen and me. I think it's why Owen was claustrophobic and afraid of the dark. But the tree growing over it, Peter had—I know this sounds crazy, but Peter had a relationship with it. He'd take us out there when Mom asked him to watch us, and he'd sit on the stump of the big tree that used to be there and . . . talk."

"To you and Owen?" Deaton asks.

"To the tree."

Deaton catches Stiles' eye, and Stiles nods as he stands and grabs his magical supplies, still in his satchel from the banding. Yeah, they're fucked. "Cora, could you get me there?"

Cora suppresses a shiver but nods, and Allison holds her tighter. "Yeah. I'll _never_ have a problem finding it."

" _Why_?" The tone is as harsh and angry as Stiles expected, but it's not Derek's voice. Stiles lifts his gaze to Scott, who's staring at him with wide, hurt eyes, fists clenched at his side.

"Scottie—"

" _Why_ , Stiles?" Scott says again. "Why does it matter about a cellar and Peter Hale and whoever the hell Paige is?"

Stiles feels the tension pouring off the Hales as he stares his brother down. "Because that's where Jennifer took Dewey." He upends his satchel onto the coffee table and starts picking up the bundles he made, ripping them apart with shaking fingers and sorting unused spell components into combinations that might be useful for defending against a crazed undead Darach with phenomenal power.

"That cellar is built over a Nemeton," Deaton says. "An ancient, sacred place of magical power. During World War II, some misguided people cut down the tree that was growing there, thinking it was the Nemeton. But it was just a tree, doing what trees do best: growing in places with abundant resources."

"The magic's still there, but it's dormant," Stiles adds, moving the asphodel into an open pouch and removing the rosemary altogether. "Cutting down the tree was like unplugging a lamp from a socket. Power's still flowing, even if nothing's plugged in to use it."

The color drains from Derek's face. "Jen's going to plug Dewey in?"

Stiles swallows hard and wishes he could offer Derek _any_ other answer. "Basically, yeah." He ignores the shocked gasps around him and the way Derek's entire being seems to collapse in on itself. He stands and shoulders his satchel. "We have to stop her. _Now_."

"Why her?"

Stiles whirls. Scott has _never_ directed this much anger his way.

Before he can respond, Scott's rolling on, "Why Jennifer—Julia, whatever. Why Dewey? Where's Ignace? Where's _your daughter_? Why don't you care about _them_? Just because you're sucking his father's dick—"

" _No._ Absolutely not. Cut it the fuck out, Scott, that's not you." Stiles exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ, of course I care about them. I'm out of my fucking mind worrying about what the DHO's doing to Claud right now. But if Jennifer finishes what she's starting with Dewey, then Beacon Hills becomes—look, an active Nemeton produces more magical energy than you can imagine. That draws things here. Beings. Of a supernatural nature. You follow me?" He searches Scott's face and finds only fury and contempt.

"In ye olden times," Stiles continues doggedly, "people offered themselves to keep this thing humming. Blood, tears, jizz, whatever. And that's _good_. Willing, happy sacrifices of _life_. If crazy Jennifer kills Dewey— _her own kid,_ Scott, I can't even tell you the shit magic that stirs up—and sacrifices him against his will, that'll twist the fuck out of the Nemeton's energy. And Jennifer will control it. _That_ 's what Peter wanted from Paige. A virgin sacrifice—sorry," he says, looking apologetically at Derek, "I don't mean to assume."

Derek shakes his head. "No, you're right."

"So that was Peter's plan. He must've known about Paige's heart condition all along. He never wanted her to be a werewolf. He wanted her to die, and for him to control the power that would've unleashed. Jennifer wants the same thing. And, Scott, if she succeeds, Beacon Hills becomes _a literal beacon_ for all the negative supernatural energy in the area." Stiles' voice has grown shrill and loud, and he reins it in with effort. "It'd be like living in the portal to Hell."

He and Scott stare at each other, and he tries to will Scott to understand. To trust him. But Scott's face is hard and shuttered. In his eyes, Stiles has done something that's going to be very hard to come back from.

"We have more than enough people to look for all of the children." Deaton's placid, reasonable voice breaks the stare-down, and Stiles wants to both hug him for his intervention and punch him for being calm at a time like this. "But Stiles is right, Alpha McCall: stopping Jennifer _must be_ our first priority."

Scott looks between them, betrayed, and he doesn't loosen an inch as he snaps, "Danny. Lydia."

Frowning slightly, they step up beside him. "Yeah?" Danny asks.

"Tell us where to go."

Lydia blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You're both good with strategic thinking, and you _don't_ have family missing. I need you to divvy everyone up, tell us who's going where."

Lydia's expression softens, and she squeezes his arm. "Of course." She inclines her head, and she and Danny step aside, heads pressed together as they whisper quietly.

As much to distract himself as to reassure Scott (okay, and himself), Stiles grips Scott's bicep and says low in his ear, "We _will_ get the kids back, Scott. Stopping Jennifer is the only way to ensure that they'll have a safe home to come back _to_."

Scott jerks his arms away. "My own fucking brother," he says, so hurt and so disappointed.

"Not today," Stiles says with equal force. "Today I'm Stiles-the-emissary, not Stiles-the-brother."

"The whole point of having my brother as my emissary was that we've never made that distinction," Scott says grimly before turning away, and Stiles _hates_ that Deaton was right about this.

It seems like Danny and Lydia are barely gone thirty seconds before they return, grim-faced but determined. "Here's the plan," Lydia says. "No arguing."

"Stiles," Danny says, "take Erica and Cora and get Dewey back from the crazy undead Druid." He looks faintly disgusted, like he can't believe he leads a life where this is an actual sentence coming out of his mouth.

Stiles salutes. Erica and Cora grin wickedly and high-five each other.

"Laura, Danny, Derek, and Boyd are getting Ignace back," Lydia says. "Feel free to rough up Deucalion's pack _a lot_."

"I think the word you want is 'kill,'" Laura growls, and Lydia shrugs.

"Not with two cops standing next to you it's not," Dad says, but his tone is mild.

"Deaton, Lydia, and Jordan will find Claud and deal with the Third Circle," Danny says.

Deaton's protest is instant and unsurprising. "I can't allow myself to—"

"I'm sorry," Lydia cuts in, eyes sparkling dangerously, "did that sound like a request? The three of us _will_ find Claud and deal with the Third Circle. End of discussion."

Deaton's eyes narrow and his lips tighten, but he doesn't argue, because he's not an idiot.

"Everyone else goes after the rest of the kids," Danny says. Stiles almost whistles, he's so in awe of how neatly they did that. The talent pools are well-balanced, each group contains at least one member of each pack, and no one's going after their own kid. Fewer distractions, more incentive for everyone to see every part of the plan through.

"Doesn't the DHO have the other kids, too?" Boyd asks.

Stiles nods. "Technically, yeah. But it's safe to assume they're being held someplace different from Claud, because the DHO sees them as bargaining chips, rather than assets or, you know, actual living _people_." A round of low growls reverberates through the group, and Stiles _almost_ smiles.

"Melissa and the Yukimuras have agreed to stay back, guard the house in case anybody gets any bright ideas about doubling back," Dad says. "They're also ready to provide the first aid we will surely need." Stiles wants to protest the pointed look Dad gives him as he says that, but who's he kidding?

"You guys got a spot for me?"

Everyone turns; Kira stands at the base of the stairs in black yoga pants and an old, oversized Beacon County Sheriff's Department t-shirt, eyes fierce, katana across her back.

Scott bounds across the room and takes her hands. "What are you doing?"

"Getting the kids back," she says.

"You gave birth less than three hours ago."

"I know. I was there. I was also there when some way-creepy alpha werewolf stole our _three-hour-old_ baby, probably to kill her and take her power. If you think I'm going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you go out and play hero—"

"It's not twiddling your thumbs!" Scott shouts. Stiles hopes he didn't flash his eyes at her. She _hates_ when he does that. "It's healing from the physical trauma of childbirth!"

Kira rolls her eyes. "Kitsune. Accelerated healing. Let's go."

Scott opens his mouth, probably for another futile argument, but Laura's voice cuts across him. "I say she's in." She looks at Stiles and Deaton. "I can do that now, right?"

Someone laughs nervously as Stiles nods and says, "Yes, absolutely, you can do that now."

"All right," Laura says. She looks at Danny and Lydia. "Where's she going?"

Lydia and Danny look at each other and have a complicated eyebrow conversation. Then Danny nods and says, "Go with Scott."

Dad does a head-count while he checks his gun. "You're not sending many of us for the other kids. And they had the most muscle grabbing them."

"Yeah, but they were mercs," Allison says. "Without Deucalion's pack or the DHO around, they're going to take one look at two werewolves—including an alpha—a kitsune, an Argent, and the sheriff of Beacon County and realize it's not worth the effort."

Stiles looks at Derek, still sitting on the couch looking understandably gutted. "You going to be okay?" he asks.

Derek looks back for a minute, considering, and then nods. "I will be once we get the kids back," he says, standing with considerable effort. "Let's go."

It's not that easy, of course. Stiles and Deaton have to work the intricate tracking magic that will tell them where the hell the DHO is stashing the kids. Then everyone scrambles for a few minutes while they work out transportation, routes, communications plans, backup plans, and worst-case scenarios. Finally they're piling into the cars that will take them, if fate is on their side even a little, to their children.

Stiles grabs his father's arm as they pass on the duplex's front porch. "Promise me you'll stay safe."

"As safe as you will," Dad says before he heads toward the cars.

"Well that's terrifying," Stiles mutters. He turns, his thoughts half with his father, and smacks into Scott as he comes out of the house.

"Scott—"

"Out of my way, Stiles," Scott growls.

"Listen, Scott—will you _listen_ to me for two seconds?"

"Why?" Scott snarls. "So you can tell me again how much more important someone else's kid is than mine?" Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Scott silences him with a raised hand and a half-second of red eyes. "No, Stiles. There's no time, and I don't want to hear it, anyway." He jogs down the two steps to the ground and then pauses and says over his shoulder, not even deigning to turn enough to look Stiles in the face, "Laura and Dr. Deaton told me it was a bad idea to make my brother my emissary. When this is over, it's time for you and me to talk about whether they were right."

Scott rushes away toward Jordan's cruiser. Stiles stands rooted to the porch, staring after Scott and feeling like someone's dropped a hundred-pound rock onto his shoulders, until Erica grabs his arm and hauls him into her SUV, shoving her keys into his hand as she does. "You drive," she says. "I'm in no shape to do it."

Stiles isn't sure he is, either.

* * *

The drive to the Nemeton is quiet. For once, Stiles feels no need to fill a silence. So many thoughts whirl in his head that he wouldn't even know where to start articulating them.

Cora talks some, at first. Little things, like Allison's bow skills and Jordan's impressive fireballs, trying to convince Stiles and Erica, or maybe herself, that the people tasked with rescuing the band's kids are more than capable of doing so. But the closer they come to the Nemeton, the quieter and tenser she grows, until she speaks only to give directions.

Erica hasn't spoken since she climbed into the back seat, but her silence is active, filled with little tics and twitches. Stiles doesn't know if she's thinking of the task ahead of them or of her own kids being held captive by hostile strangers and dependent on somebody else to help them. The way Lydia and Danny split them up is for the best, but it's a bitter pill to swallow.

He worries most about Claud, and not just because she's his. Cory and Ignace are too young to understand what's going on, and Vivi, Andrew, and Owen have each other. Even Dewey should be okay for now because he doesn't realize what Jennifer intends for him. Claud, wherever she is, is alone and entirely too aware of what's going on. And having been blessed (cursed?) with Stiles' overactive imagination, she's probably envisioning a lot of worst-case scenarios. And Stiles can't do a damned thing about it. A feeling of helplessness surges up and threatens to swamp him. He swallows and grips the gearshift. When Dad and Melissa warned him that parts of parenthood would suck, they didn't warn him about _this_.

They drive into a small clearing in the Preserve. "Stop here," Cora says, voice tight. "We'll walk the rest of the way."

After Stiles parks, Erica and Cora use their supernatural grace to exit the SUV soundlessly. Stiles doesn't bother; he jumps out and slams the door behind him as loudly as he can. He doesn't imagine for an instant that they can get the jump on Jennifer. Knowing how powerful her magic is (was? Is it as strong now as when she was alive? Alive for real, that is), Stiles figures she's known they were there since the instant they turned into the Preserve. Maybe before. Screw stealth; he wants the bitch to know they're coming for her.

They have a plan of sorts, but plans are arbitrary and highly subject to the whims of fate. Or, in this case, the whims of undead Druids. He knows Erica and Cora are straining their wolfy hearing for the slightest sound from Jennifer, ready to pounce the instant she gives a hint of what she intends.

Stiles shivers and hunkers further into his jacket as they walk. He'd rejected Isaac's offer of one of his ubiquitous scarves, thinking it would get in his way, but it's February, and it's cold, and he has regrets.

Cora tilts her head and scowls. Erica squints, but she looks more confused than anything. " _What_?" Stiles hisses, cursing supernaturals who don't pass vital information to their unenhanced human companions. "What's going on?"

Erica flaps her hand at him to shut up, a gesture he still remembers intimately, even a decade after they broke up. She's almost . . . smiling. They move a few more yards forward, and now Stiles hears it, too, the rise and fall of a voice.

It's Dewey.

Stiles' relief is so immense he almost staggers. Every mile they drove and every step they took had felt shrouded in a fear that they would arrive too late. At this distance, he can't hear what Dewey's saying, just that familiar excited tone that's told him so many stories and asked him so many wide-eyed questions. Given the fond and amused looks on Cora's and Erica's faces, whatever he's saying is just Dewey being Dewey. Another small knot of tension loosens. Not only is Dewey still alive, if he's this happy he still doesn't know his mother's plans for him. If Stiles can do this right, he never will.

Stiles starts being able to make out Dewey's words just as those words start to be about him. "Mommy!" Dewey says excitedly, "Mr. Stilinski's here! And Erica and Aunt Cora! Erica and Mr. Stilinski are Car's parents. _And_ she has another daddy, too. That's a lot of parents, isn't it? But they're all really nice. Car's my _favorite_."

The situation is so dire and so absurd that Stiles has to laugh, because otherwise he'll lose his mind and run away.

Stiles can't hear Jennifer's reply, just the low murmur of her voice. Dewey giggles in response, but he's drugged on magic. He giggled at tummy tickles; he'll giggle at _anything_. Poor kid will giggle all the way to the knife, if Jennifer has her way.

Stiles isn't about to let that happen.

Now that Dewey's alerted Jennifer to their arrival, Stiles feels more justified in walking into the clearing. Cora and Erica stick close behind him, although the quivering tension in Cora's body makes it clear that she'd prefer to turn her back to the Nemeton and run as fast as she can in the other direction. Stiles doesn't blame her.

Deaton brought Stiles here once, years ago, when his magic first started making itself known. Stiles had been young, arrogant, and in so far over his head that he couldn't see the sky anymore. He barely remembers coming here (which is why he'd needed Cora to direct him), but he _knows_ the Nemeton's power didn't feel like this. His electrical outlet analogy still feels accurate, except that now he thinks he should've added a caveat for greedy, sentient outlets that demand you plug something into them whether you want to or not. He wonders if Jennifer's already given the Nemeton something, her own blood, maybe, to start waking the magic. The Nemeton's magic grabs at his own, pulls him forward, tries to pull his magic out of him and into itself. Cora and Erica shift uneasily behind him, fighting the same force, pulling at whatever turns humans into shifters, makes werewolves _other_.

Stiles fights the pull and fights to stay outside a perimeter he can't see but feels in his bones. Any further, and he'll be within Jennifer's sphere of magical influence. Inside that sphere, Jennifer's power will be absolute unless a more powerful magic-worker enters it. Stiles is _not_ that magic-worker, so he has to be careful to stay over here—and to make sure Jennifer doesn't enter _his_ sphere. Also, this is where Jennifer laid her mountain ash barrier. If he goes further, he's alone, without Erica and Cora to back him up.

He takes stock of the situation as quickly as he can. Jennifer has placed Dewey smack in the center of the large stump that's all that remains of the towering tree that once grew here. He's tied down, arms and legs bound with thick, magically strengthened ropes that are staked into the ground beside the stump. But he still doesn't realize he's in danger. He's looking at the sky and cheerfully babbling about whatever's on his mind. Which, if Stiles can guess, is every single thing Jennifer missed in his life since she was taken out of it in a body bag five years ago. Jennifer's walking around the stump, unconcerned by the others' arrival, checking the spell components set up around the base. She nods and makes encouraging sounds at appropriate points in the story, but Stiles knows a thing or two about looking like you're listening to a kid without actually doing it, and Jennifer isn't hearing a word coming out of Dewey's mouth.

Stiles is plotting how to turn that lack of attention to their advantage when Dewey yells, "Hello, Mr. Stilinski!" with a child's usual lack of volume control.

Stiles winces internally, but on the outside he's all smiles as he waves and calls back, "Hi, Dewey."

"Mommy and I are having adventures!" Dewey announces.

"That sounds great," he says, and if there's any silver lining to whatever Jennifer's done to Dewey, it's that it apparently prevents him from being able to tell that Stiles is lying.

Jennifer straightens and faces Stiles, a broad smile on her face. It looks genuine, which is way scarier than if it'd been fake. "Mr. Stilinski, hello," she says. Her voice is soft. Musical. "Can I call you Włodzimiers?"

Behind him, Cora and Erica snicker. "No!" he yelps, waving his hands. He isn't just denying permission; she really can't call him that. Her pronunciation's atrocious.

"I understand you're teaching my son magic."

Stiles shrugs, remembering how Derek downplayed Dewey's magic at the duplex. An almost zen serenity settles over Stiles, and he knows what he has to do. "A little bit," he says, scratching his head and pulling out the "aw, shucks" foot shuffle he and Scott have been trying to perfect since adolescence. "Just the basics." He waves his hand at Dewey. "You wanna see?" He tries to keep his voice disinterested, like he doesn't think it matters one way or the other.

"See what?" Jennifer asks, voice bristling with suspicion.

Stiles shrugs again. "What he can do. I mean, you're starting a five-fold sacrifice here, right? Use Dewey's blood and power to fire up the Nemeton, then the rest of the sacrifices brings the magic in the territory under your control. And, you know, kudos to you; that's real dedication. But the first sacrifice sets the tone for the whole thing, right? If Dewey doesn't have enough magic, or if it's the wrong kind, you're screwed until, what, May? And you won't have the Adams pack and the DHO backing you then." He shakes his head and looks at Dewey like he's a disappointment to them all. He wants to cry with relief that Dewey's not paying him any mind.

Jennifer's suspicious. Stiles can tell. He's marshaling other arguments, casting about for anything that would sway her, when Dewey pipes in, "I have a wizard's staff, Mommy. Wanna see?"

Bless this child. Seriously, just . . . bless him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Without knowing he was doing anything, he'd said one of the few things _guaranteed_ to give Jennifer pause.

A strong enough Druid pulls power from Earth, Sea, and Sky and manipulates them through sheer force of will and extreme control over themselves and the magic flowing through them. A Druid who needs a staff or other object as a focus usually isn't particularly strong. Then again, most Druids are older than six, a fact that seems to escape Jennifer.

"A staff, huh?" Jennifer says, her smile so wide and fake it _hurts_.

"Mr. Stilinski gave it to me!"

When Jennifer cocks an eyebrow at Stiles, he makes a "what're you gonna do?" grimace. "Thought it'd make him feel special."

Because Dewey _is_ special, magically, and Stiles wants Jennifer to find that out for herself. The hard way.

Jennifer looks at Stiles suspiciously for another long minute. She hasn't looked at Erica and Cora once. Stiles is more than okay with that. Eventually Jennifer sighs like this is the world's biggest inconvenience and turns that bright, fake smile on Dewey again. "All right, little man," she sing-songs, "show me what you can do."

Stiles thanks every deity that may or may not exist that Dewey is six years old and brand new to learning and using magic. If someone had asked Stiles for a demonstration, he'd've gone small and sort of goofy, like a bouquet of the person's favorite flowers that sang their favorite song. Dewey's first instinct is not to do anything, but to look to his teacher for permission.

Permission Stiles is _fucking enthusiastic_ to give.

"Can I, Mr. Stilinski?" Dewey asks.

Stiles is nodding before the sentence is fully out of Dewey's mouth. "Yeah, that'll be great. Let's show Mommy what you can do." He lifts his hand, palm toward the ground and fingers curled. "Remember what we talked about, about turning on a faucet?" On the blasted stump of the Nemeton, Dewey nods eagerly. Stiles takes a deep breath and the biggest risk of his life to date. "Okay, I want you to turn that faucet all the way on!"

Dewey's green eyes grow cartoonishly wide, and for a second Stiles worries that he's about to be hoisted by his own petard. Because he's emphasized one thing above all others in Dewey and Claud's magic lessons: we never, _ever_ turn the faucet all the way on.

Then Dewey starts vibrating excitedly, and although his hand is bound, he forms it as closely as he can into the same shape. "Can I _really_?" he asks breathlessly.

"Heck yeah!" Stiles says, hoping he sounds more excited than terrified. "We want your mommy to know _exactly_ what you can do." Lowering his voice so that only the werewolves behind him can hear, he adds, "You may want to hold onto something stable. And get ready to draw some serious pain." He can't see Cora and Erica, but he hears them moving to grab whatever trees or boulders are handy. Stiles tries to look relaxed. He waits.

Dewey turns on the faucet.

"No, wait!" Jennifer yells. She charges toward the stump. Stiles flings out a spell to keep her away. Then he has just enough time to slam down a barrier between himself and the _torrent_ of magical energies that rush through the clearing. But he can still feel it, and he can see the damage it's causing.

He's seen videos of landslides, avalanches, tectonic rupture. If Dewey's magical energy were visible, it would look like that. Dewey lies at the center, the eye of the storm; he can't be harmed by his own magic.

Jennifer has no such protection. The first blast of Dewey's magic throws her across the clearing. Her back and the base of her skull slam against a boulder, and she crumples to the ground. She comes to and tries to gain her feet, but the assault hasn't let up. Still in the blast radius, Jennifer continues to get pummeled by Dewey's magic. After a moment, she falls to the ground and lies still.

And Stiles hates, _hates_ that Dewey has to do this, has to _kill his own mother, **fuck**_. But he knows better than to imagine for a second that his own magic would be enough to overcome Jennifer, and even if he'd had the chance to break her mountain ash circle, he'd felt other strong wards in place against physical attack.

When Jennifer stops moving, Dewey starts whimpering. The flow of magic feels wilder, out of caster's control. Stiles staggers to the edge of the barrier, buffeted by the magic within. "Dewey!" he calls. "Dewey, turn off the faucet!"

There's a sob. "I _can't_!"

Stiles' heartbeat kicks up a notch. Dewey's six and scared and not in complete control of his magic. But if he doesn't stop the flow soon, he'll be, to stretch the metaphor, like a burst pipe, and Stiles has no idea if anyone can survive that. If anyone ever has.

"Hold on!" he yells to Erica and Cora.

"We are!" Erica yells back.

" _Tighter_ ," he says, and then he opens the barrier. He doesn't lower it, just runs his hand down it as though cutting a slit in a curtain. The force of the magic barreling out shoves him back several feet, and he hears cursing and scrambling behind him. He forces his way back to the opening—and then through. He feels a sudden kinship with those reckless storm-chasers who run toward tornados.

It's never been so hard to walk. To _move_. Stiles blocks out everything going on around him and puts all his focus into getting one foot in front of the other. He could make it easier with magic, but the last thing any of them want is his magic added to the cacophony.

He tries to find the magic's flow, so he can move with it instead of against it, but there _is_ no flow. It's all chaos now, individual pieces of raw power flying around wherever there's space, looking for a way out, or a way to ground—and more enters the dense space every second. It's flowing through Dewey out of the ground, joining the melee, joining the panic. Stiles doesn't have a lot of time before it reverses course and tries to return to ground through Dewey. "Dewey!" he calls. "Dewey, I'm here!"

"Mr. Stilinski!" Dewey sobs. His small body is writhing on the stump, unable to get away from the power that's coming out of him, or what's trying to get back into him. "Mr. Stilinski, what's going on?"

"You have to turn off the faucet, Dewey." Stiles reaches the stump, but there's no time to untie Dewey. He crawls across the rough surface as quickly as he can and cups Dewey's face in his hand. "Dewey. Dewey, find your fixed point. Come on, Dewey. Focus."

Dewey's tear-streaked face scrunches up. " _Daddy_ ," he says, and Stiles nods enthusiastically.

"Good. That's good. Think about Daddy's smell, okay? It's like oranges, right? And pine trees?"

"And snow," Dewey says, voice sounding slightly less wrecked but also physically weaker, which, not good. _Not good._

"Yes!" Stiles shoves away his dread and focuses. "And his eyebrows. Think about that thing Daddy's eyebrows do when he's confused."

"They do that to you a lot, Mr. Stilinski."

"That they do. Wouldn't they be doing that right now? Wouldn't he be confused about why no one's turning off the faucet?"

Dewey's arm jerks. "But my _hand_ , Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles grabs the hand in his. Fuck his faucet metaphor, this feels like being fucking _electrocuted,_ but he grits his teeth hard and holds on tighter. "Yeah, but here's the secret: you don't need to make the gesture for the faucet to turn off. Isn't that cool? The way you feel when you do it, that's what matters. So get that feeling, and the same thing will happen." Dewey's eyes flick back and forth quickly, like a spasm. His face looks slack, like he's falling asleep. They're running out of time. "Look," Stiles says desperately, "how about I make the gesture, and you turn off the faucet."

"Okay." Dewey's voice has a faint, faraway tone, but he's nodding and squeezing Stiles' hand, and Stiles lifts his free hand in the faucet gesture and turns. Slowly. Because as much as he wants to force that gate closed as quickly as possible, he has to give the magic time to dissipate and find its level, or it'll all pool in Dewey, and he has _no_ interest in finding out what that'd do to the kid.

Though Stiles understands the placebo effect, even if Dewey doesn't, he makes that gesture for all he's worth. No fake faucet in _history_ has been as tightly shut off as this one.

And it _works._ It gives Dewey the sense that he's shutting off the faucet, like they've practiced in Stiles' classroom a dozen times. Slowly the magic around them dwindles and recedes to normal ambient levels. It seeps into the ground and the rough bark of the Nemeton stump, evaporates into the air, and settles in its reservoirs within Dewey and Stiles. An unnatural silence reigns in the clearing. It'll take several hours before the birds and animals that live in this part of the Preserve are willing to come back to this spot. Stiles wishes humans and werewolves had half the sense of self-preservation.

As soon as he has the strength, Stiles unties Dewey's nearest hand and foot. Then he rises to his hands and knees and crawls his wobbly way around to release the other hand and foot. Dewey sits up slowly and rubs his wrists, frowning at them in confusion. When Stiles looks down at them, he sees the angry red lines they left and realizes Jennifer must've coated the ropes in wolfsbane. This might be the first time Dewey's experienced lasting pain.

Stiles gathers Dewey into his arms and gently rubs one of his wrists with one hand while he destroys the magical barrier with the other. Cora and Erica rush up to the Nemeton and then hover uncertainly, waiting.

Stiles waves Erica over. "Here, sweetie," Stiles says to Dewey, "Erica's going to help you with that." Erica takes Dewey without comment, and Stiles murmurs, "Be _careful_. He used up most of his energy reserves on that demonstration. Focus on his wrists and ankles, where she tied him."

Erica nods, and Stiles climbs shakily off the stump. He crosses the clearing to where the magical blast threw Jennifer, gesturing for Cora to join him. When they're crouched in front of the body, Stiles looks it over with as much dispassion as he can muster, given that what he really wants to do is set it on fire.

Cora leans over Jennifer, listening. Stiles frowns as he watches her. She leans back and stares up at him with wide eyes. "Stiles," she whispers, her voice somewhere between unadulterated disgust and grudging awe, " _she's still alive_."

Stiles rears back, the same way he does when he thinks he's killed a spider in the shower and it starts moving again. But he takes a deep breath and forces himself to look at Jennifer again. He can't detect any signs of life in her. He could if he called up his magic, but he's had quite enough of that for today, thanks. He trusts that Cora's superior sight and hearing picked up something he can't and leaves it at that.

A flame of calm, steady and unexpected, lights up in Stiles. It settles him, and he takes a half-step forward.

The thing is, Stiles will never be "the nice one." He can _be_ nice. He teaches first grade, for heaven's sake; he's not a _complete_ asshole. But his niceness is targeted. Specific to people he already knows and cares about. Compassion for anyone who's crossed him and his? Not on your life. He leaves that shit to Scott and Danny. But there are moments, he thinks. Times when being the asshole is the kindest thing to be.

Stiles leans over Jennifer and searches her clothes. He quickly finds what he's looking for, a long, gleaming, wickedly sharp blade. He doesn't let himself think about the fact that she'd intended it for Dewey.

Stiles crouches over Jennifer. He's always imagined that if he found himself in this position, he'd be a perfect flame of impartial vengeance, implacable and unaffected. Now that the knife's in his hand and an actual _life_ is at his mercy, how can he be unaffected? He rests his free hand on Jennifer's shoulder, whispers, "I'm sorry" (and he is. _Fuck_ , but he really is), and drives the knife into her heart.

Cora's eyes flash gold, and she growls softly. Across the clearing, Dewey whimpers, and Stiles looks over to see him press in close against Erica's chest as Jennifer's magic leaves him.

"We're burning the body," Stiles says tightly to Cora. "Stay here until there's nothing left. I'm not taking chances this time." The DHO has many tricks in its bag, but the ability to reconstitute cremated remains isn't one of them.

Cora nods. "Agreed."

With a flick of his wrist and a bit of angry, muttered Gaelic, Stiles sets Jennifer's body alight. Then he squeezes Cora's shoulder and walks back toward the SUV, gesturing wearily for Erica to follow.

They don't speak beyond necessity on the drive home. Mostly that's to keep from waking Dewey, who's fallen into a deep but fitful sleep. His hands twitch, and once he calls for Derek. He has a long healing in front of him.

As they pull into the duplex's driveway—the first ones back—Erica puts her hand on Stiles' arm. "Why did you bother with the knife?" she asks. "She was almost dead."

"But only almost," Stiles says. He grips the door handle and watches Dewey's pale, sleeping form in the rearview. "Whatever else happens, when Dewey grows up and asks how Jennifer died, I didn't want him to have to hear that he did it."

He busies himself unbuckling Dewey from the car seat so he won't have to watch Erica's face as that realization sinks in.

* * *

Melissa checks Dewey over but, as Stiles predicted, she can't do much for him besides put him to bed. "If he stays unconscious for too long," Melissa says, "we may have to take him to the hospital for an IV. He doesn't need to be dehydrated on top of everything else. Otherwise, we wait."

They wait. Erica draws as much of Dewey's pain as she dares, and Stiles pushes as much magic as he can into Dewey's body to try to reestablish his natural connection to the source. But Dewey's is Earth-based magic while Stiles' is fire-based, so he can only do so much before he starts making the situation worse.

Twenty minutes later, Erica looks up and toward the road. The Lassie joke struggles toward the front of Stiles' mind, but he's too exhausted to fully form it, let alone speak it. He watches her stare at the front door until she gives a broken half sob, turns to him, and says, " _Claud_." Then they're racing toward the door, even Erica's werewolf speed not giving her much of an advantage over Stiles' general parental worry and relief.

They tumble around each other out the door and are standing next to Lydia's Lexus before it's come to a complete stop. Stiles sees a lot of flailing limbs inside as Claud climbs over Deaton to get out closest to where Stiles and Erica are standing rather than taking the time to run around the car. It's Stiles' Rube-Goldbergian thought process at its purest, and Stiles can't fight the grin that starts to bloom on his face. If Claud can be this nonsensical, she's probably okay.

The door opens, and Claud basically falls out of the car. She catches herself at the last moment and flings herself at Erica. " _Mama_ ," she gasps.

Erica's arms come up around her, one hand cradling Claud's head to her chest, the other rubbing frantic circles on her back and shoulders. "Oh, my baby," she whispers. "You're okay now. Mama's got you."

Stiles waits, though he feels it like a hand around his heart. The werewolf mom and the human kid with the strong pack instinct need each other way more than he needs to butt in.

That doesn't mean he's not going to run an aetheric scan on Claud while he waits. Her energies are surprisingly strong—he's seen them more dinged up after a bad fight with Andrew.

Stiles inches closer, searching Claud's face for physical bruises, and she tips her head to the side and slits her eyes open to look at him. "Tatuś," she says, beseeching, and holds out an arm to him. He goes gratefully. It's awkward, getting his arms around her while Erica's still holding her, but they eventually work out a group hug that lets Claud squish against both of them. He breathes in the faint scent of her shampoo and feels the softness of her sweater under his palm. Her tears are soaking Erica's shirt and Stiles' jacket, and nothing has ever mattered less.

A small, delicate hand lands on Stiles' shoulder, and he looks up at Lydia, who wavers through his tears like a mirage. "Hey," he murmurs. "You okay?"

She smiles at him. "We're fine," she says, and even without the confirmation of Erica not calling her on a lie, he'd know it was the truth from the small, proud smile on Lydia's face. "If Danny and I had known how much Jordan hates Druids, we would've put him with another group, but it was fine. The Third Circle won't be causing any more problems for us. Or anyone else."

Stiles' eyes widen. "You killed them?" he hisses. Lydia doesn't have much in the way of moral qualms about killing their enemies, but between Jordan's badge and Deaton's obsessive commitment to neutrality, he hasn't expected that.

" _No_ , Stiles," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "Deaton did something—kind of badass, actually, please ask him to teach it to you—that severed their magic permanently." She gives a sharp grin that gives Stiles a glimpse of the wolf she would've been had her banshee powers not made her immune to the bite. "They can try something like this on us, or someone else, but it'll end badly for them. _Very_ badly."

God, Stiles can't even imagine. The DHO may not be as influential as they like to think they are, but the Third Circle is comprised of very old, _very_ magically powerful people. To find themselves cut off from their magic, after long decades of depending on it—well. He won't be surprised if he hears they're all dead within the month.

Lydia puts her hand on Erica's shoulder. Erica reluctantly raises her tear-stained face to look at Lydia. "I need you to hear this," Lydia says solemnly, "and I'll say the same thing to Boyd when he comes back: all three of you should be so proud of Claud today."

Erica's arm tightens around Claud, who sags further into her hold. "We're _always_ proud of her," Erica says, the wolf's growl rising close to the surface of her voice.

"But _today_ ," Lydia says, unfazed. "She downplayed her strength the whole time they had her, so that when the fighting started, they only left one guard on her. Then she kneed him in the crotch and ran away." She flashes that sharp smile again. "I'm thrilled to have another strategist in the band."

Erica offers an equally cutting smile in return, and Stiles thinks everyone was safer when they barely tolerated each other.

Everyone moves back inside (and yes, of course Stiles notices Deaton's conspicuous absence but, when he asks, is told only that the other emissary is having some kind of crisis of conscience. Whether that crisis is about what he had to do to the Third Circle or about what the Third Circle was doing to Claud, no one knows). "Do you want to sleep or wait for Papa?" Erica asks Claud as soon as they're through the door.

Stiles expects she'll demand to stay up, but instead she yawns and looks at him. "Can I sleep in your bed, Tatuś?"

"Sure," he says, nodding. "You can even take Dewey, as long as you promise to let him rest."

"Dewey's here?" Claud's face lights up as she looks around.

"Yes, but you _have to_ let him sleep," Stiles says in a hushed tone, motioning for Claud to keep her own voice down. "He's had a really rough few hours."

"Tatuś," Claud says, and the acidity in her voice is almost funny, "we've _all_ had a really rough few hours."

Stiles shrugs. She's not wrong, but even "kidnapped by Druids with threatening but indefinite intent" pales in comparison to "kidnapped by your own mother, who definitely intends to sacrifice you to a greedy power node."

Realizing she's not going to get any more details out of her parents about what happened to Dewey, Claud huffs and stomps over to the couch. Stiles starts to warn her again, but Erica's hand lands on his arm in a sort of "watch this" gesture. So he presses his lips together and watches as his daughter, with utmost care, slides her arms under Dewey and picks him up. Cradling him to her chest, she makes her way slowly to the stairs and then up them, towards Stiles' room.

Stiles feels like that shouldn't really be possible, given what he knows about Newtonian physics. On the other hand, given the things that make up his daily life, he supposes his bat for what's possible is . . . crooked, to say the least.

Another 45 minutes pass. Stiles paces until Lydia gives him a death glare (probably metaphorical, but does he really want to take that risk with a banshee?). Then he sits, tapping his fingers against his legs and his feet against the floor until Erica starts to glare at him, too. Then he stands by the window like a forgotten student at the end of the school day (it happens, man), watching for the next group to come back. Intellectually, he knows it'll be the ones who went after the DHO's mercs. There's no way Derek and the others could be back from the Adams territory yet. But he can dream.

In the end it doesn't matter, because Erica runs up to the window and says, breathlessly, "Scott and the kids are back" before the car's even turned onto their street. Ugh. Spoilers.

Stiles hangs back for this reunion. He's got no stake in it beyond fundamental band connections. He gives Erica her moment with Vivi and Cory and Jordan his moment with Andrew and Owen, and he stays out of the way until parents and aunts have hugged their fill and are willing to make room for him.

And in the meantime he notices things. The way Owen won't go more than ten feet from Isaac, who got himself injured saving Owen from one of the few ogres who stubbornly insisted on standing and fighting. How, even as she clings to Erica, Vivi looks toward the door at every sound, desperately hoping it's Boyd.

How Scott won't look at him.

Stiles knows he can't rush whatever's going on with the Adams pack, but he can't help but hope Derek and the others get home _fast_.

Because every minute that passes with Ignace missing takes another chip off of Stiles and Scott's relationship. If she's gone too long, there'll be nothing left to repair.


	13. The Way We Live Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another "kitchen sink" chapter--this one with sexytimes! And violence. Definitely violence and gore here. 
> 
> A thousand thanks to gnomerino for the beta work. Attribute all remaining errors to my post-edit tinkering.

**_February 22, 2022_ **

"Everybody know the plan?" Laura asks, hands tight around the steering wheel. She's just turned onto Deucalion's street.

Boyd nods. "And the backup plan."

"And the contingency plan," Danny adds. Unlike the wolves, who're dressed for a fight in old t-shirts and jeans, Danny's wearing pressed khakis and a crisp blue button-down under his coat. For the whole two and a half hours of the drive, he's been messing with a laptop, a printer he's plugged into the cigarette lighter, and—is that a laminator?

" _And_ the worst-case bailout plan." Derek had rolled his eyes about this before, but now he wonders if they should've made _more_ plans.

Laura cuts the engine and lights half a block from the Adams' packhouse. Danny pulls up the hood of his jacket and flashes a sharp grin that's half vengeance, half fear. He looks _young,_ and Derek didn't know him as a teenager, but he knew Isaac and remembers that Isaac had a crush on Danny even then. It hits him with suffocating clarity that they're not _just_ here to bring Scott and Kira's daughter back to them. They've made an unspoken promise to Isaac, Erica, and Jordan to bring their beloveds back, as well. That feels huge, and daunting, and scary, but at the same time Derek knows he'll fight three times as hard because of it.

The ideal scenario is that they don't fight at all. Danny disables the alarm, grabs Ignace, and runs back to the car, without the Adamses noticing. They'll smell him, but there's the tiniest sliver of a chance that, without the alarm alerting them to a break-in, they'll assume he's a harmless, unassociated human, maybe in a neighboring backyard.

The packhouse lights turn on, flooding the street in a harsh glare. So much for that sliver of a chance.

Laura's out of the car before Derek has his door open. She's in full alpha shift by the time she crosses the street. Derek and Boyd move in behind her, movements as coordinated as if they've spent their whole lives battling dangerous enemies together.

Four shifted weres meet them in the courtyard. Derek's never met the Adams pack, but it's easy to identify Deucalion, Kali, and the twins. He assumes Ennis has been dispatched to deal with Danny and Ignace, and he hopes to god Danny isn't exaggerating when he says he can handle whatever they throw at him.

Kali comes straight at Derek, the claws of her hands and bare feet pointed at his vulnerable midsection. It won't be a fair fight: she's a beta in a pack notorious for fighting and killing other weres; he's a _translator_ from a band mostly known for how many of its members work in the elementary school. Their parents taught them how to fight, and he's kept up with his practice as much as he can, but practice is a far cry from the real thing.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to defeat her. He just has to keep her from killing him until backup comes.

 _Un_ fortunately, he thinks as the claws of her left foot rake across his abdomen, he might not be able to hold out that long.

Derek roars his pain and frustration. He ducks under an incoming fist and punches out with the heel of his hand, connecting with Kali's solar plexus and sending her back more from surprise than from impact. He presses his advantage with a low sweep kick that sends her tumbling, but she catches herself and pops back to her feet in the blink of an eye.

He doesn't have much energy to devote to his peripheral awareness, but he spares some for the other fights. Laura's easily holding her own against Deucalion—he can call himself "demon wolf" all he wants, but Hale alphas have always been strong, fast, and fierce, especially the women. Boyd's doing impressively well against both twins, which makes Derek embarrassed about how poorly he's faring against _one_ opponent.

The twins roar, and one drops to one knee, a fist planted on the ground, as the other backs up and runs toward him.

"Boyd, no!" Laura screams as she swipes at Deucalion's shoulder. "Don't let them—"

Derek doesn't know what they're about to do, but if Laura's that worried, he's not about to let it happen. He spins away from Kali and runs toward the twins, colliding with the one who's running when his hand's millimeters from his brother's back. Four lines of searing agony burn down Derek's back from Kali's claws. He bellows in pain and trips over the kneeling twin and over Boyd, who was charging the twins with the same intention. All four of them go down in a tangle of elbows and knees.

It's straight-up brawling after that, Derek, Boyd, and the twins rolling across the courtyard, trading blows when they can land them, striking out with feet and claws and teeth when they can’t. Every movement pulls and tears where Kali scratched him.

Dimly, beneath the sounds of the melee, he's aware of someone talking. Danny's voice, measured and calm, intercut and overridden by a gruff, angry snarl that must be Ennis. Danny again, faster but no louder. Ennis, almost at a yell.

The gunshot stops everyone in their tracks.

The Adams packmembers lift their heads as one and loose a raging howl to the night sky. He doesn't know if Ennis's dead yet, but . . . wolfsbane _and_ mountain ash in Danny's bullets. Ennis can't heal, and he can't move. It won't be long.

Deucalion advances on Laura with a speed and force that makes his last attacks seem like a choreographed fight scene in a play. "YOU. WILL _. **DIE**_!" he roars, striking again and again. Laura blocks every one, but she's on the defensive now, can't get out from under his assault to land her own blows. Derek shakes off the twins and jumps to his feet, ready to run to her side. "I'll kill the child first,” Deucalion sneers, “so you can see your failure." He lands a punch that sends Laura staggering back a step. "Alpha last, of course."

An enormous, reverberating roar rocks Derek, and he turns back to the twins. _Fuck._ He turned his back on them to make sure Laura was all right, and—holy shit, he shouldn't have done that. Where Aiden and Ethan stood twenty seconds ago is now a—a _beast_ , one single, giant entity of muscle and rage. Something is clearly broken in Derek's brain, because he immediately runs _toward_ it. The giant twin backhands him without effort, and he has time to see it (them?) turn toward Boyd before his back hits a tree. He swears as the breath rushes out of him and he slips to his ass on the ground.

And then Kali rams a piece of fucking _rebar_ through his stomach and pins him to the tree.

He screams as pain fires in every direction at once. His hands scrabble against the bar, trying to yank it out, but it's slick with blood—his _hands_ are slick with blood, the air thick with the coppery scent of it, and every time he jostles it, the pain blasts through him again.

"Shasta County Sheriff's Department! Freeze! Weapons down and hands where I can see them. _Now_!"

Everyone who can move steps apart instantly, hands raised. Derek's dimly aware of a wet tearing sound as the twins separate. He tries to lift his hands, but they're . . . well, he can't feel them at the moment.

"You! On your feet!" a voice barks. A bright light shines into Derek's eyes, and he raises his hand to shield them. "Holy _shit_ ," the voice says, shocked now. It sounds far away. "Okese! Help this guy _now_."

"Sheriff Diaz—"

The flashlight disappears. "Not now, Mr. Adams."

"These people are trespassing in my home—"

"I said _not now_ , Deucalion." The sheriff is tall, early 40s, lots of muscle, ochre skin. He seems wet behind the ears, too new to the position to deal with supernatural drama.  "Okese, is he gonna—"

A short, muscular, onyx-skinned man—no, wolf, he smells like wolf—kneels in front of Derek, making disapproving clicking noises as he looks over Derek's wound. God, the pain. He's in so much pain. That must be what's clouding his vision.

" _Sheriff Diaz_ ," Deucalion snaps, getting in the sheriff's face.

"You have a length of pipe in your intestines, Mr. Hale," murmurs the wolf—Deputy Okese, Derek supposes, inasmuch as he has energy and focus to suppose anything. He has a faint accent. _Ghana_ , Derek's brain supplies absently.

Derek laughs weakly. "I'd noticed."

Diaz whirls on Deucalion. Derek watches from a strange remove, because it keeps his mind _slightly_ diverted from the pain screaming through his body as Okese begins to pull out the bar with strong, steady hands. "I have _warned you_ , Alpha Adams," Diaz snaps, sounding fed up. "Your pack _cannot_ keep acting as if the laws of this county don't apply to you."

"One of them has _killed_ one of my packmembers, Sheriff. If you think for one minute—"

"All right, all right. Jesus." Diaz pinches the bridge of his nose. "Lofgren!"

A pale, blond woman lopes up from the cruiser. "Sir?"

"Check the house. And be careful. There may be weres inside."

"Sir."

A wave of pain unlike anything he's ever felt slams into Derek. He looks down to see Okese holding the rebar, shifting its weight between his hands as if it might teach him something about Derek. "You will heal now," Okese says.

"Yeah." Derek nods. He's healing already, his insides and outsides knitting themselves so they stay where they're supposed to. "Thanks," he says, and his voice sounds like—well, like a guy who just had a foot of rebar pulled out of his guts.

"Rest, take care of the scratches on your back, and no more pipes in your intestines."

Derek laughs. He can't help himself. "I'll bear it in mind," he promises.

Okese reaches into the back pocket of his uniform pants and pulls out a large bag, which he puts the rebar into. An evidence bag, Derek thinks. They're more by the book in Shasta County. Okese leaps nimbly to his feet and nods to Diaz. "Mr. Hale will live," he says.

"Goddamn show-off," Diaz mutters, affection clear in his voice. He looks at the werewolves littering the yard; apparently they're fair game now that Derek's life's not in imminent danger. "Someone tell me what's going on here."

"These _vermin_ —" Deucalion begins, distraught.

"Hey!" Diaz says sharply. "I've lived in Shasta County for twenty years. I know what debts we owe Talia Hale. _You_ have been nothing but a pain in our collective asses. Think carefully about how you talk about members of the Hale pack."

"They _killed_ a member of my pack! I _will_ have redress!"

Diaz looks at Laura. "That true, Alpha Hale? One a you kill one a them?"

Laura spreads her hands. "I'm not sure, Sheriff."

With the overly dramatic timing Derek's recently begun to expect from the universe, Deputy Lofgren emerges from the house, Danny trailing behind her with Ignace in his arms.

"Well?" Diaz asks.

"One dead werewolf in the nursery, boss," she says. "Looks like Wyland Ennis."

Diaz jerks his chin at Danny. "Who are you?"

Lofgren looks uncertain for the first time. "Says he's CPS."

Danny pushes around Lofgren and strides up to Diaz. Now Derek understands why Danny's dressed the way he is. His movements are harried and rushed, a stark contrast to his usual calm. He looks every inch the overburdened county aid worker. He thrusts an ID wallet under Diaz's nose. "Daniel Lahey, Beacon County Child Protection. This—" He jiggles Ignace; she sleeps on, blissfully unaware. "—is Ignace Yukimura-McCall. She’s the subject of a kidnapping investigation."

"McCall?" Diaz asks. "John Stilinski's boy?"

Something sly creeps into Laura's smile as she sidles up to Diaz. "That's right, Sheriff. Ignace's father is Alpha McCall, my co-alpha in the Hale-McCall band. Sheriff Stilinski's her grandfather. Would you like to hold her?"

Diaz ignores this and stares at Deucalion. "Alpha Adams, did you kidnap Alpha McCall's baby?"

"She's about six hours old," Boyd offers.

"That man is a murderer!" Kali shrieks, pointing at Danny. "Arrest him!"

"And he's _not_ a child protection worker," Ethan adds. "He's, like, married to McCall's second or something."

"One crime at a time," Diaz says doggedly. "Did you kidnap the baby?"

"Of course not!" Deucalion scoffs.

"I can show you the warrant," Danny offers. That explains the printer, then.

Laura pulls out her phone, which Derek's starting to view as a more dangerous weapon than her claws or her fangs. "I have Alpha McCall and Ms. Yukimura in my contacts. They can tell you how the Adams pack, along with certain members of the Druid High Order of North America, entered the McCall packhouse by force and abducted seven children."

" _Seven_?"

"They're not all here," Boyd says drily.

"All right, I've had it," Diaz says. "All of you—" He gestures at Deucalion, Kali, and the twins. "—are under arrest for conspiracy to kidnap, kidnap, and child endangerment. Okese, Lofgren, cuff 'em and read 'em their rights."

Ethan and Aiden are surprisingly obedient as Okese approaches them, but Kali has her claws and fangs out before Lofgren's within twenty feet. " _He killed Ennis!_ " she screams, launching herself at Danny.

Eyes wide and panicked, Danny turns, curving his back protectively over Ignace. Diaz and the Hale wolves leap at Kali, wrestling her to the ground. Diaz gets the handcuffs on her while Boyd sits on her lower back.

Diaz puts a consoling hand on Danny’s shoulder. "You all right, Mr. Lahey?"

Danny straightens. Ignace scowls briefly and makes a tiny grumbling protest about the jostling. "Yeah." Danny clears his throat. "Yes, thank you, Sheriff. We're fine."

"Is it true? Did you kill Ennis?"

"Daniel Lahey" may be the most transparent fake name of all time, but _nothing_ is fake about the fear and anger that roll off of Danny. He looks at Ignace's sleeping face and says, "He threatened to kill me and the baby." His gaze lifts to Sheriff Diaz, his face shuttered. "I believed him." Derek hears no hint of a lie.

Of course that doesn't stop Kali from screaming that Danny's a liar, bucking wildly to try to throw Boyd off her back.

"We'll need a formal statement from you, preferably sooner rather than later," Diaz tells Danny, "but it can keep for now."

"I've got that training in Beacon City on Friday, boss," Lofgren says. "Maybe we can do it at BCSD, save Mr. Lahey the drive." Derek's pretty sure that's illegal, or at least against SCSD policy. He keeps his mouth shut.

Danny beams. "Thank you, Deputy Lofgren," he says. "I'd appreciate that. Do you like tea?" Diaz snorts and starts prodding Deucalion toward the cruisers.

"I am the alpha of alphas!" Deucalion thunders. "Your fragile human prisons cannot hold me!"

"Mmm." Diaz bobs his head. "Maybe not, but I think you'll find our heavily reinforced and magically warded prisons can."

His well of threats dried up, Deucalion settles for snarling as Sheriff Diaz and his deputies lead him and his pack away. Deputy Okese flashes his eyes gold and bares his neck to Laura as he passes.

That leaves the rest of them just . . . standing there. It's anticlimactic. Derek expected a more definitive end to the story, combatants covered in blood and victory, not abandoned and chilled in the February morning.

But they have the baby. That's what matters. And she's doing astonishingly well for a newborn supernatural who's been separated from her parents and her territory for several hours.

Danny continues to hold Ignace as they start toward Beacon Hills, because she likes him. It surprises Derek at first; most supernatural babies prefer other supernaturals to humans. Then again, Danny has pack scent, and the others don't. Eventually everyone will have a band scent, but it hasn't had time to develop yet. At first Danny can't settle; he feeds Ignace the emergency bottle Kira sent with them and flinches every time she so much as breathes heavily. After about half an hour, though, Ignace is sleeping again, and Danny's exhaustion overcomes his nerves. He leans his seat all the way back, settles the baby on his chest with his hand cradling her head, and drifts between waking and sleep.

Boyd falls into a real sleep soon after, and it's just the Hales awake. Derek leans his head against the headrest and watches the highway zip past. "I haven't checked my phone," he admits.

"Neither have I."

"If something's gone wrong, I can't find that out from a text."

Laura shakes her head. "You can't think like that. Think about who went out there. They'll get him back."

"But what if—" The sentence dies in Derek's throat, too many horrible ways for it to end. What if they arrived too late? What if they can't beat Jen? What if she does too much damage for Dewey to recover from? What if the beautiful, smart, powerful, funny, _perfect_ kid Derek's spent the last six years becoming ever more smitten by is gone forever? Laura gives him a consoling half-smile, half-grimace, and they're silent again until Derek says, "Cops sure showed up fast."

"Danny overrode the alarm system's distress call protocol. Diaz was on his way before Danny stepped foot in the house."

Just shy of the "Welcome to Beacon Hills" sign, Laura pulls the car onto the shoulder. Boyd's eyes slit open. Laura puts her hand on Danny's knee. "Danny."

Danny jerks out of his doze, his arms instinctively tightening around Ignace, who fusses briefly before subsiding again. "Huh? What?" Danny blinks rapidly.

"Give Derek the baby."

"What? _Why_?" Derek and Danny chorus. Boyd snorts.

"This band is less than twelve hours old," Laura says. "I don't want it messed up already."

"And giving me Scott's baby is going to fix it?"

"It can't hurt," Laura says. "You being the one who hands Ignace back to Scott will go a long way toward convincing him how much she matters to you. Especially if you hold her long enough to get your scent on her."

Derek eyes her with skepticism and dismay. "That seems a little manipulative."

"It's a _lot_ manipulative," Laura says, "and I don't give two shits, as long it helps stop this fight."

Danny gingerly sits up and holds Ignace out to Derek, who takes her with equal trepidation. She squirms during the handoff and makes one brief but full-throated cry, but once he's holding her firmly, she shifts her tiny body around to get more comfortable and falls back asleep.

Derek stares at her. She's wrapped in her green blanket and wearing a hand-painted white onesie that proudly proclaims her to be "World's Best Nibling" in uneven lettering, the tiny "ng" at the end of "nibling" wrapping around onto her hip. Derek's heart clenches at the memory of Stiles painting that onesie at Kira's baby shower, Scott slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders and laughing as Stiles realized he was going to run out of room.

Ignace is one of the cutest babies Derek's ever seen (besides his own), with wild tufts of fine black hair and big, dark brown eyes. Her facial structure mostly resembles Kira's, but Derek’s pleased that she has Scott's crooked jaw line. Right now she just smells like baby—a mix of newness, her parents, and her pack. Her base scent will develop over the next three days, and traces of wolf and fox will start showing up throughout the coming lunar cycle. She seems pretty perfect to Derek.

The last turn in their route puts them a quarter mile from the duplex, and Laura sits up straighter. The wider hearing range is the one alpha perk Derek wouldn't mind having.

"Oh my god," Laura whispers. Derek smells the salt tang of tears, but her emotions are fluctuating too wildly to know if they're good tears or bad, and he has to ask, but he _can't_. The words won't come.

She pulls over to the curb and twists in her seat so she can look at them. For one split second that lasts an eternity, everything's unsettled. Then she smiles, so radiant and relieved that looking at her almost hurts. "They're all there," she says, laughter spilling into her tone. " _Everyone_. They're back. They're safe."

The flood of relief leaves Derek so boneless that the baby slides down his chest a little where his arms aren't quite strong enough to hold her. "They're okay?"

Laura nods fervently, sending tears flying. "Yeah," she says, wiping her eyes. "They're—" She tilts her head, listening, and laughs harder. "Jordan says we're making him nervous, and that we should get our butts over there right now."

There's a chorus of laughter, and although they still don't talk much as Laura pulls back onto the street and races toward the duplex far faster than she should, the atmosphere in the car is a hundred times lighter.

The front tires have barely hit the driveway when the front door to Scott's side of the duplex opens, and Scott and Kira rush onto the porch. Scott's jaw is clenched tight with anger and worry, but Kira's straining forward with the desire to hold her child.

As soon as Derek's out of the car, Kira rushes up to him, arms outstretched, tears running down her cheeks. Then she stops, looks from Ignace to Derek to Laura to Scott, and steps back, nodding. "Scott," she says, "come hold your daughter."

Scott takes both porch steps at a jump and comes down the driveway in two long strides. Derek lets his eyes glow blue and tilts his head shallowly—a show of respect but not submission. "Alpha McCall," he says and extends Ignace carefully toward him.

When Scott takes Ignace, his fingers brush Derek's in a way that feels deliberate, like he's making a concession by touching Derek and letting him feel the trembling in his hands. It's not much, but Derek will take it. Scott presses his cheek to Ignace's tiny face, inhaling deeply, and makes a sound that's part growl, part keening whine, and part relieved sob. He opens his eyes, glowing unabashedly red, and Kira’s hands come up to run up and down Ignace's back, to touch her little feet and hands.

And _now_ , now that she senses she's safe again, Ignace's mouth scrunches up, and an impressive wail bursts out of her, one Derek suspects has been building for hours. Kira and Scott make the cooing shushing noises that parents have made at babies since time immemorial, and Derek slips away and leaves them to their moment.

Derek casts his hearing through the house in search of the heartbeat that's been his anchor for six years, the one that keeps him sane. He finds it on the second floor, in the back of the house.  It's slower than he's comfortable with, but it's steady and it's strong, and Derek lets out a slow, relieved breath and walks faster.

He sees flashes of the band as he walks through the house. In the kitchen, Laura has Jordan, who looks to have stress-baked about a hundred muffins, pressed against the refrigerator, kissing him with a fervor that makes Derek weirdly nostalgic for the early days of their relationship, when their PDAs ambushed him and Cora around every corner. Boyd and Erica sit at the dining table, their hands linked tightly, their bodies slumped against each other's, and Cory sprawled over both of their laps. In the living room, Isaac and Danny share an armchair, Danny remonstrating Isaac about whatever caused the faint scent of injury coming off of him. John and Melissa sleep side-by-side on the love seat in the corner. And on the couch, Cora lies with her head in Lydia's lap. Allison sits beside them, one arm around Lydia's shoulders and her other hand stroking Cora's hair. Derek would be lying if he said he'd seen that development coming, but now that it's here it makes a lot of sense.

He hears the other heartbeats, too, some here, some in the other half: Andrew and Owen in one room, Vivi in another, Car (where else) with Dewey. It's a gift, that at the end of this nightmare, they're here, together, a band united, with their children safe and whole.

Derek strides toward the stairs but pulls up short when he sees Stiles sitting on them, his head against the wall, more than half asleep. "Hey, Stiles," Derek says softly.

Stiles jerks upright, banging the top of his head on the underside of the railing. They both wince, and Stiles rubs his head ruefully. "Hey, uh—oh! Hey. Hello, my intended." Derek has to smile at that. "You got Ignace back, right?"

Derek nods. "Handed her back to Scott myself." Stiles gives him a scrutinizing look that he can't quite decipher, so he clears his throat and continues, "Wyland Ennis is dead."

" _Wyland_?" Stiles repeats.

Derek snorts. "Yes, _Włodzimiers_."

Stiles swats ineffectually at Derek's leg. "I'm not sorry he's dead. Does that make me a bad person?"

Derek shrugs. If it makes Stiles a bad person, then Derek's one, too.

Stiles scoots to the side so Derek can pass. "So, Dewey's upstairs, last door on the right. He's pretty out of it, but I promise he's okay. He's healing. It just took a lot out of him, you know?"

No, Derek doesn't know. He's not ready to know. He may _never_ be ready to know. But. One thing he _has to_ know, little as he wants to. "Jen?"

Stiles’ face smooths into a cold, hard mask. "Dead," he says decisively. "Like, _really_ dead. No coming back this time."

Relief and sadness and gratitude and regret swirl in Derek. He grips Stiles’ shoulder and doesn't speak, unsure if he should be offering apology or thanks. But then he says, because how can he _not_ , "Thank you for saving Dewey."

Stiles gives him a hooded smile. "Honestly, dude? He pretty much saved himself. I just, uh, told him which way to turn the faucet."

Derek thinks of Stiles standing beside Dewey in the classroom, or backstage in the auditorium. He believes that Dewey saved himself, but he also knows that, without Stiles’ tutelage, Dewey wouldn't have known how to do that. So. "Just say thank you, Stiles," he growls, leaning down.

An impish grin curves Stiles’ mouth. "Thank you, Stiles," he murmurs before he leans up and accepts the kiss—and the gratitude—Derek's offering. When they separate, Stiles’ smile is wider. "Last door on the right," he says again.

Derek holds out his hand. "Come with me?"

Stiles takes Derek's hand and climbs slowly to his feet, leaning into Derek's side as they ascend the stairs. He keeps up a steady stream of babble as they climb, but it feels rote, like he's filling a space.

At the top of the stairs, Derek stops and looks at him, two steps down. "Are you okay?"

Stiles closes his mouth and looks away. "I will be. Eventually. I think. It's—" He shakes his head and looks at Derek. There's something haunted in his eyes that wasn't there the last time they saw each other. "Maybe someday," he says, low and strained, "I'll tell you what happened out there. If you think you should know. Right now it's just . . . a lot of bad shit."

Derek draws Stiles into his arms, and Stiles goes gratefully for a long beat before disentangling himself and motioning for Derek to keep walking.

Derek doesn't need to talk to Dewey. He just needs to see him, to watch the rise and fall of his chest so his eyes can confirm the thumping heartbeat in his ears and the cotton, charcoal, and cut-grass scent in his nose. He eases the door open and peers inside.

The room at large is small and cozy, just big enough for a queen-sized bed, a tall dresser, a worn but well-maintained gray armchair, and a small, ornate roll-top desk that looks antique. The decor is dark blue with silver accents, and the art on the walls is spare, without a _Star Wars_ or superhero poster in sight. It's surprisingly sophisticated for a man who mostly wears paisley and argyle sweater-vests and bowties in the classroom and frayed hoodies over mildly offensive t-shirts out of it.

What interests Derek most is the bed. The dark blue comforter has been pulled up high enough to almost obscure the two heads on the pillows, but Derek moves closer until he can see Dewey's head tucked under Car's chin and Car's arms clasped around Dewey's back. Derek watches for a long moment, the way the kids' inhales and exhales lift and lower the covers, the way Dewey's breath ruffles Car's honey-blond curls.

It all crashes down on him, the _enormity_ of everything they've been through in the last nineteen hours. Stiles’ text announcing the transformation of Book Brook feels like it happened months ago, but it's been less than a day. Since then they've survived a new baby, a wolfpack wedding, multiple kidnappings, and more fighting and death than he'd wanted to see in his entire lifetime. The air around him swims, and he only realizes he's shaking when Stiles’ arms go around him.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles says, rubbing his back. "Hey, breathe with me. Can you breathe with me?"

Derek takes a huge, sucking breath, and everything stabilizes. He smiles apologetically but doesn't extract himself from Stiles’ hold. "It's not a panic attack," he promises.

Stiles scans his face and then nods and rests his temple against Derek's. "It's a lot to deal with, isn't it?"

Derek feels itchy in his skin. He knows that nothing about him or his life has really changed, but he doesn't feel like _himself_. He needs to settle himself before he does something stupid.

Or maybe he needs to do something stupid to settle himself.

Derek turns his head and captures Stiles’ mouth in a fierce, hungry kiss. Stiles gives a startled squeak and turns Derek in his arms for a better angle. Stiles’ tongue against his lips, his palms pressed flat and broad against Derek's back—they help, they're a start, but—"I need you to fuck me," Derek growls in Stiles’ ear.

Stiles gasps and twitches. His pupils dilate, and the cloud of desire that bursts off him goes straight to Derek's dick. But guilt follows on its heels as Stiles glances at the bed. "Jesus Christ, Derek, you can't say—I mean, they're _right there_."

Someone downstairs says Derek's name, and he tilts his head to listen. A predatory grin takes over his face and, after one last look at the bed, just to be sure, he grabs Stiles by the wrist and hauls him out of the bedroom.

"What—where— _hey_! Asshole!" The instant the door closes behind them, Stiles plants his feet. He's unexpectedly unmovable for a human. "Communication and consent." He jerks his hand out of Derek's and crosses his arms. He still smells like desire, but now he smells like anger and determination, too.

Derek takes a half-step back to give them breathing room. "Lydia and Allison are going to our house with Cora. Vivi's in Lydia's room, but we can use Allison’s if we want it."

Stiles throws his hands in the air. "Fucking werewolves!" he hisses.

Derek shrugs. Privacy doesn't concern him right now; Stiles does. "Do you want?"

"Fuck yes, I want, just—" Stiles tugs his hair and deflates. He opens the bedroom door again, gesturing Derek back inside. "Okay, fine. If we're going to Allison's room, we're taking the back way."

Derek frowns but follows. Stiles shoves up his window and climbs out. "Fucking balls, it's cold!" he yelps.

When Derek looks down, he sees that a wooden ledge just wide enough to walk on and a railing run along the back of the house a few inches beneath the windows. Stiles has already scampered halfway across by the time Derek steps out gingerly. He bounces experimentally. It seems solid enough, and he moves quickly after Stiles. "What is this?"

Stiles waves a hand. "It's—there was a thing with Danny's parents and Isaac and the loan on the duplex and—you know, I'll be happy to tell you about it sometime when I'm not, like, thirty seconds from getting you naked."

Derek laughs and rushes to catch up. At the next window over, Stiles, already inside, offers Derek a hand, which he accepts, though he doesn't need the assistance. When Stiles tugs, Derek lets himself be pulled across the carpet and into a warm, solid body.

He takes in less of Allison's room than he had of Stiles’, quick impressions of dark browns and crimsons with a few splashes of cream. There's a bed. That's all he cares about.

Stiles is stripping out of his clothes. There's no grace or finesse to his movements, and that proof of the force of his desire is gratifying. Derek puts a little werewolf speed into his own undressing, and he's naked before Stiles. Derek leaps onto the bed and spreads out, waiting, smothering his wince at the pull against the still-healing claw marks on his back.

Stiles looks over as he pulls off his sock and staggers, shin slamming into the bed frame. He curses and hops around to get out of his other sock. "God _damn_ , Derek, how are you _real_?" he breathes, and Derek stretches. If Stiles likes the view, he should get as much of it as he can, right?

Derek's enjoying his own view. This is his first time seeing Stiles naked. As he's suspected, there's damned fine muscle under those layers of sweater vests and flannel, and Derek's eyes trace the planes and curves down Stiles’ body. He zeroes in on dustings of arm and chest hair, memorizes patterns of freckles and moles, and lingers over scars and tattoos, promising himself that one day he'll hear the story of every last one.

Stiles’ cock is half-hard and not seeming to mind the scrutiny. It's long and flushed, and Derek's body thrums in anticipation of what it's going to do to him—and what he wants to do to it.

Stiles climbs onto the bed and slides his way up Derek's body, making Derek shiver. He rests his legs between Derek's and hovers over him, bracing his arms. Derek pushes at Stiles’ elbows until they collapse, forcing him to drop his full weight down.

"This can't be comfortable, dude," Stiles says, laughing.

" _Werewolf,_ " Derek fires back. He trails his fingers up and down Stiles’ back, reveling in the smooth heat of his skin, and Stiles arches into it like a cat. His body undulates against Derek's, and Derek groans. Stiles grins and thrusts his hips down. Derek's insides light up like the Fourth of July, and he yanks Stiles’ head down and crushes their mouths together.

Stiles kisses back with fire, his hands sliding over to grip Derek's biceps. Derek wraps his legs around Stiles’ calves, wanting to surround and be surrounded. Pinned under the weight and heat of him, his soft skin and thick hair under Derek's fingers, Stiles’ heartbeat thunders in Derek's ears, and his scent seeps into Derek's pores. God, he needs this. Needs to be smothered in sensations that aren't terror and pain and death.

Stiles gets his right hand between their torsos and slides his thumb over Derek's nipple. Derek shivers a little but brings his own hand down to move Stiles’ over so his thumb rests on the areola. Stiles squints but runs his thumb around, and the air leaves Derek's lungs so quickly he has to pull out of the kiss to breathe.

"No _way_ ," Stiles breathes, fascinated, as he moves his left hand to repeat the process on the other side, with identical results. "That is _so cool_. Scott and Isaac mentioned it, but I've never gotten to try it."

Derek's too awash in pleasure to care that Stiles is mentioning other guys in bed, but he does pull Stiles back into a kiss to shut him up. Stiles makes an "mmph" sound and braces his hands against Derek's pecs to keep from rolling off.

"Listen," Derek says when he has to pull away, "someday you can spend all the time you want exploring the interesting things male werewolf bodies do. Not tonight."

"Right, right," Stiles pants. He flails a hand out, and Derek can't figure out what he's doing until he swears and flops back down and mutters, "Allison's room."

Derek frowns. "Yeah?"

"I don't know where she keeps her condoms and lube."

Derek scowls. "Does she _have_ condoms and lube? Her girlfriend's ace. And a werewolf."

Stiles slaps his chest. "Don't start with me, Derek, I mean it. For one, I've never seen compelling proof of that 'werewolves can't get or pass STIs' bullshit. For another, Cora and Allison have a very open, trusting dynamic around sex. Don't piss on it because you don't approve."

"I do," Derek insist. "I just—any chance we could talk about this some other time? When we have more clothes on?"

Stiles chuckles. "Yeah." He looks around, mind back on the original problem. "Hey, you leave my window open when you came out?"

"Yeah."

Stiles grins. "Time to Harry Potter this shit." He stretches a hand toward the window and says what Derek assumes is the Gaelic equivalent of " _Accio_ condom and lube," because, yes, this is the guy Derek wants a relationship with. In seconds, a condom packet and a half-full bottle of lube fly through the open window and land on the bed. A similar procedure toward the door shoots the bolt home. Stiles kneels between Derek's legs and pours lube onto his fingers. Derek opens the packet and rolls the condom carefully—and with maybe a few more lingering strokes than strictly required—onto Stiles’ cock while he still has the coordination for it. The hot hardness of it under his hands is heaven. Stiles’ pleased and startled gasp is better.

"Someday," Stiles says as he slides one slick finger into Derek's ass, "I am going to _wreck you_ doing this. Make you come just from my fingers in you. Maybe your dick down my throat, if I feel like it."

Derek moans at the image. He pushes against Stiles’ hand, desperate for more friction, more fullness. "Werewolf, Stiles," he gasps. "Don't be gentle."

Stiles pauses, and then a pleased and wicked grin curves his lips, and two more fingers press in. Derek feels shuddery and light, like a balloon that's only tethered where his body touches Stiles.

Stiles’ fingers curl and thrust relentlessly, raining showers of sparks up Derek's spine. Derek writhes and grips whatever's in reach—the bed, Stiles’ thigh, he can barely tell anymore. He must say something, though he can't hear what over the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, because Stiles pulls his fingers out. Derek's whole body clenches around the emptiness, but he barely has time to protest before Stiles is slicking more lube over his cock, draping Derek's legs over his elbows, and sliding home in a devastatingly competent motion.

"Oh, holy shit, Derek," Stiles gasps, bottoming out and stilling. "Oh my god, you feel good."

Derek shifts his hips against the mattress, adjusting to the fullness. It's been so long, and part of him wants to hold Stiles immobile until this unmoored feeling subsides.

Derek clenches his ass experimentally. Above him, Stiles hisses. "Okay," Stiles says roughly. "Okay, you ready?"

" _Go_ ," Derek grunts.

Stiles rocks with slow, shallow thrusts, finding his rhythm and angle, learning Derek's body. Derek keeps his eyes open and lets his senses drown out the nightmare images and _what ifs_ in his mind. There's a hard cock in his ass and two heartbeats thundering in his ears. There are soft sheets under his back and a faint sheen of sweat even in the February chill. Everything else is _Stiles_ —half-closed amber eyes, miles of pale, heated skin, palms that burn like brands against Derek's legs, choked-off encouragements and profanities, and the scent. _Everywhere_ the mint-forest-ginger scent that's been seeping into his skin since September. Derek closes his eyes and throws back his head, and every thrust of his hips to meet Stiles’ feels like a victory snatched from the jaws of death.

The gingery part of Stiles’ scent spikes to the fore, fiery and bright, and Derek lets out a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh. He slits open his eyes, and Stiles is watching him with a head-tilted curious look. Stiles lowers Derek's leg and cups his cheek, and they both gasp and falter at the change in angle. "What?" Stiles asks.

Derek wraps his freed leg around Stiles’ waist. It pulls the next thrust in deeper, slams Stiles' cock into Derek’s prostate so hard he sees stars. He kisses Stiles’ palm. "Your scent," he pants. "Sharp. Tickles."

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, a full-body motion that brings Derek back to that day in the tea shop, the day of their first kiss, and _god,_ Derek has waited too long to be nice about this anymore. He wraps his other leg around Stiles’ waist and yanks Stiles deeper still with his heels. " _Fuck,_ " Stiles moans, falling forward and bracing both hands against Derek's chest.

"Please," Derek begs.

"I got you," Stiles says, and he does. He _does_. He picks up his pace, hips pistoning in smooth, sure strokes, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back, hitting Derek's prostate on damned near every stroke. Derek thrusts back to meet him, digs his heels into the small of Stiles’ back. He runs his hands up and down Stiles’ arms, over wiry muscle and smooth skin and fine hair. Stiles’ thumbs brush distractedly at Derek's areolas. There's no words now, just harsh grunts and heavy breaths and thoughts Derek sees form and dissipate in Stiles’ eyes, until—"Can you come like this?" Stiles pants. "Just from this?"

Derek shakes his head. "Not tonight."

"Then touch yourself," Stiles commands.

Derek moves a hand from Stiles’ arm and strokes his cock, gathering precome to ease the way. He falls into Stiles’ rhythm automatically, so he speeds up his motions, and Stiles speeds up to match, a pounding pulse inside him.

Stiles leans forward; the angle shifts again; Stiles’ teeth sink into the pulse point in Derek's neck. Derek shouts wordlessly, and the whole world narrows to the bright pain at his neck and the hot come spilling over his hand. Stiles’ rhythm falls apart, and it's a dozen erratic thrusts before he shoves in hard and then stills, his groaned-out breath a hot rush against Derek's neck. Even through the condom Derek feels the wet heat of Stiles’ release. Stiles’ other elbow gives out, and he collapses against Derek's chest. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of _them_ , their bodies are slick with sweat and sticky with come, and Derek feels like he's falling back into his body from a great height.

Derek unwraps his legs from around Stiles’ waist and plants his feet flat on the bed. He starts to lower his hand to wipe it on the sheets, but Stiles grabs it and raises it to his mouth, licking it clean. Derek groans, and his eyes flash. He wraps his arms around Stiles, settling Stiles’ head back in the crook of his neck.

They hold their bubble of silence for two full minutes before Stiles starts to twitch, which impresses Derek. Of course the first words out of Stiles’ mouth are, "I am _so glad_ you switch, because you have got to do that to me as soon as possible."

"By which you mean June," Derek says drily.

"Oh my god, _seriously_?" Stiles shrieks, pushing himself up to stare at Derek. The movement pulls Stiles’ softened cock out of Derek's ass, and they wince. Stiles manages to continue to glare while removing the condom, tying it off, and dropping it in the bedside trash can. "After all of—of _everything_ , you still want to wait?"

"I don't _want_ to, but, yeah. I will." He shrugs. "I don't want to be like Rikki Cardenas."

Stiles’ eyes grow even wider. "Did you—is that why you put the brakes on?"

"I overheard a couple of the shark moms talking at the pageant, and—"

"Okay, first off, that teacher was _married_. And so was Rikki. And another thing: Rikki didn't give a damn about Jim. She used sex to manipulate him into giving her hellion favored treatment."

"And I don't want that reputation for any of us. So I'm willing to wait."

Stiles gives a disgruntled huff and drops back onto Derek's chest. "You're made of sterner stuff than I am," he mutters, sounding both irritated and grudgingly impressed.

Derek kisses his hair. "I think I've just been burned more."

Stiles hums thoughtfully and wriggles. "Is this uncomfortable?"

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ back. " _No_ ," he says. If he could, he'd keep them right here for the rest of the night.

Stiles subsides, and Derek feels the smile against his chest. "You feeling better?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to Derek's shoulder.

"Yeah," Derek says.

"So, _you_ handed back Ignace," Stiles says, drawing back so they can look each other in the eyes. He takes Derek's hands in his and kisses his fingertips. "With these hands, right here." Derek nods. "Thank you."

Derek feels suddenly self-conscious. In retrospect it seems like a paltry gesture. "I hope it helps. The two of you fighting feels wrong."

Stiles shrugs. "Scottie's not at his best right now."

"Are you sure that's all it is? I don't know Scott as well as you do, but his response seemed . . . disproportionate."

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles draws back and looks at Derek as though trying to figure out if he's serious. "His response was plenty proportionate. I pulled a Deaton on him and didn't even realize it!"

"What does that even mean?"

Stiles waves their joined hands around. "It _means_ that I asked you and Cora a bunch of questions about Jennifer and Paige and your uncle and then said, 'Okay, we're going to the Nemeton,' without bothering to _explain_ to anyone else why that mattered. Fuck, yes, he had a right to be pissed off."

"Okay," Derek says slowly, "but then you explained, and he was _still_ —"

"Well, sure," Stiles says, dismissing Derek's worry easily. "But, in his defense, he hasn't slept in, like, a day. Add in the birth and kidnapping of his first kid, a banding, a huge fight, and the _eleven hours_ he spent drawing Kira's labor pains—"

" _What_?"

"Oh, believe me, riot acts have been read. I'm just saying, things will probably look a lot better once we've both had about a thousand hours of sleep."

Derek frees one of his hands to stroke Stiles' back. "He wouldn't—was he serious about getting another emissary?"

" _No_ ," Stiles scoffs. He rolls off Derek's chest and lies beside him, hooking an ankle over Derek's and tangling their fingers together. "I mean, if he knew a down-on-their-luck Druid with a heartrending sob story—"

"Other than you."

Stiles jerks back and stares. "No fucking way. My band's in one piece; the bad guys are either dead, in super-reinforced were-jail, or trying to live without magic for the first time in decades; and the hottest, sweetest, most . . . aggravatingly noble guy I've ever met is naked in bed with me. My luck couldn't be better."

Derek tilts his head toward the ceiling, but he doubts it hides his pleased smile.

"No, my point is that Scott doesn't know anyone else he could hand emissary duties to. And he's knows he can't leave his pack without an emissary for as long as it would take to find someone suitable and build that level of trust with them." He shakes his head. "No, you watch. By the end of the week, he'll be overcome with new parent hormones and forget he’s mad at me." Stiles looks at their joined hands and moves his thumb across the back of Derek's hand like an inchworm. "I think it's time to move, though."

"Oh?" Derek looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, I, uh . . ." He scratches his nose with his free hand. "The thing is, I'm not _lying_ when I say that emissaries have always lived in packhouse. It's always been an _option_. But it's rare. Mostly, we live at the territory boundary." He smiles faintly. "I can never have the kind of emotional distance Deaton wants. So I think it's time to try some physical distance. See how that works."

"Would it be weird to offer you a place in our house?" he blurts. Lord knows they have enough bedrooms.

Stiles flips over and kisses Derek deep and sure. "You're amazing," Stiles breathes when they separate. "And I don't think it's weird. But I don't think I could handle living with another pack right now." He rubs his forehead. "I'll probably move in with my parents while I figure it out."

They fall into silence. And in the silence, Derek listens to the heartbeats again. Fewer now, mostly McCall pack. But that’s his band now, and part of him, too. "It's over, isn't it?" he whispers.

Stiles beams and curls against Derek's side, his hand over Derek’s heart. "Well," he says, "the danger and worry and constantly looking over our shoulders is over. Everything else is just getting started."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! See you next week.


	14. The New Shape of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end. The end! I can hardly believe it.
> 
> 1,000 thanks to [the_wordbutler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler) for constant encouragement, behind-the-scenes worldbuilding help, and unparalleled enthusiasm for this story. No one loves Dewey Hale more than she does. Not even me.
> 
> 1,001 thanks to [gnomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi) for her unflagging beta work and good humor.
> 
> 1,002 thanks to you, gentle reader, for coming along on this ride, for leaving comments and kudos, for telling your friends, for coming back, chapter after chapter. I write this stuff for my own amusement, but I share it here for yours, and the thought of all of you out there, reading and enjoying it, gives me big ol' warm feelings in my big ol' warm feelings place.

**_June 10, 2022_ **

"All right, Dewey Decimal," Stiles says as he presses Dewey's Wolverine backpack into her hands, "how do we get to Mr. Boyd's room?"

Dewey rolls her eyes in a way that makes her look like Stiles imagines Cora looked at this age, but she takes the backpack and says, in her best "humoring the grownups" voice, "When I leave this room, turn left. At the blue hallway, turn left again. Mr. Boyd's room is the third door on the right."

"And?" Stiles prompts.

Dewey's face scrunches up. ". . . and Mr. Boyd always has music playing, too quiet for humans to hear. And if I get to the room that smells like cats, I've gone too far."

Stiles grins and high-fives her. "Great job!"

"She's won't get lost, Tatuś. I'll be with her."

Of course it's Claud's voice at the door, but when Stiles looks up, it's not Claud who catches his attention. It's Derek, standing behind her in a tight gray t-shirt and black jeans that look so old and well-loved that one good pull could make them fall apart. He's smiling, and Stiles' mind flashes back to the first moment he laid eyes on Derek, standing at the bottom of a rickety ladder and looking like the answer to every question Stiles has asked about his life. "Derek Hale," he breathes.

Derek smiles, though he's also blushing faintly. "Mr. Stilinski."

"Oh, eww," Claud whines. "You guys are being weird now, aren't you? Come on, Dewey. Let's go."

Stiles and Derek grin at each other, and then Stiles crouches in front of Dewey. "Dewey Hale, teaching you this year has been an honor and a privilege. Mr. Boyd is a great teacher and a good listener, but if you need _anything_ , my door is open. Okay?"

He holds out his hand to shake, but Dewey ignores it and throws herself at him, flinging her small arms around his neck in a kind of painful hold. He doesn't care; he wraps his arms around her and squeezes back for all he's worth until she wriggles to be let go.

"You're a good teacher, Mr. Stilinski. Even if you don't have a hamster. Bye!" She runs toward the door.

"Dewey!" Stiles calls. "I'm not your teacher anymore. You can call me Stiles now."

She scrunches up her face. "That's a weird name. Can I call you Tatuś?"

Stiles chokes. Derek and Claud give him the world's most shit-eating grins, Derek's with a tinge of "revenge is sweet." Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe, uh—maybe not yet?"

"Okay," she says easily. "Bye, Daddy! Bye, Stiles!" Dewey charges up the hall to Derek's call of, "Dewey! _Walk_!"

Claud waves, still grinning, and moves to follow Dewey to Boyd's room. "Later, Tatuś," she says. "Derek."

"Sprog," they say in unison, and Claud rolls her eyes and walks away muttering that they're both ridiculous.

"She's ten now," Stiles says mournfully. "There'll be no living with her anymore."

Derek grins. He takes a step into the room and pulls the door closed behind him. He ambles across the classroom with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He is, hands down, the best thing Stiles has seen all day. "So," Derek says.

Stiles nods. "So." They're alone in the classroom. Dewey's gone to officially meet her new teacher. Everything's permitted now. Everything's terrifying.

Derek smiles. Stiles gets lost in the crinkles next to his eyes. "We made it."

"Thank fuck," Stiles says fervently and pulls Derek in by the hips for a kiss.

They've had plenty of kisses since their first outside Quarter Moon, but this one takes Stiles back to that day, to the sweetness and promise of it.

Derek pulls away and rests his forehead against Stiles'. His fingers come up to straighten Stiles' yellow and pink polka dot bowtie. "I was worried for a while," he admits.

Stiles' eyebrows wing up. This is news to him. Has Derek had second thoughts about the wait? "Oh?"

"Mm. You weren't looking good in April."

Stiles hisses. "We do not speak of April."

Overall, the past few months have been quiet. On one hand, after what they went through in February, a few quiet months is their goddamned _due_. On the other hand, time without distraction has meant time thinking about Derek and the life they aren't having together.

Though it's not like he's at home twiddling his thumbs. He has quite a bit on his plate.

Moving out of the duplex has changed his relationship with his pack. He's still committed to being Scott's emissary to the bitter end (Scott lasted three days before Ignace did something so cute he forgot he was mad at Stiles and called to report the amazing and perfect thing his amazing and perfect daughter had done. Stiles forgave him right away, like he's always done. He'll leave it to Kira and Lydia to explain to him, in their sharpest tones, _exactly_ why he shouldn't have reacted the way he did after Dewey was taken). But living with Dad and Melissa has allowed Stiles the perspective to see cracks in the foundation of their emissary/pack dynamic, cracks he, Scott, and Isaac are trying to fix.

Also, his weeknights are suddenly filled with more committee meetings than he imagined possible. Deaton and his sister have somehow roped him into their efforts to rebuild the DHO as an actual communication and support network, like it's supposed to be, rather than a fiefdom for the power-mad. When Derek says he worried in April, he's talking about the Third Circle retreat, which Deaton and Morell insisted he attend, though he is, _at most_ , Second Circle. Stiles worried about himself that weekend, too.

Other than that, he instructs students in the magical and the mundane; he does lesson planning with Boyd and Kira; he spends time with the band and advises Scott on supernatural matters. His life looks almost like it did before he met Derek and Dewey.

Those things used to be enough. Now he feels a hole that no amount of committee meetings can fill.

Not anymore, though. After today, Derek will be admirably filling that hole.

Um. That came out wrong. Or, okay, maybe it came out exactly right _,_ but—Stiles mentally slaps himself to bring his mind back to the present.

Derek frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—" Stiles shakes his head. "This is embarrassing, but . . . we spent so long telling ourselves no that, now that 'yes' day is here, I’m not sure how to . . ." He looks helplessly at Derek. "How to _start_."

Derek makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. "I have an idea," he says. Before Stiles has time to ask what, Derek's kissing him sweet and slow—and then pulling back with a leer that lets Stiles know _exactly_ what his idea is.

"What—oh—hey— _whoa_!" Stiles puts his hand on Derek's chest to hold off whatever he's thinking of next. "Derek, dude, I appreciate the offer, but we can't do this here."

"Why not?" Derek asks, and hand to God, he is _pouting_.

"Because I teach _children_ in this room, Derek." When this fails to dampen Derek's ardor in any way, Stiles adds, " _Vivi_ , okay? Vivi's in my class next year."

"She won't be able to smell it in _September_ ," Derek scoffs.

"No, but she _will_ be able to smell if I get turned on every time I walk into the room because I'm remembering us having sex here. I don't relish the thought of explaining that to her—or her parents. Do you?"

Derek pales, no doubt imagining Erica's raucous laughter and Boyd's quiet disapproval. He leans back and looks around. "What about that?" he asks, pointing at a door in the side wall. It leads to a minuscule supply closet that Stiles shares with the teacher in the next classroom.

Stiles sighs and grabs Derek's hand, hauling him across the room. "I don't know why I thought you would be the mature adult in this relationship."

"Neither do I," Derek admits.

Inside the supply closet, Derek wastes no time sinking to his knees and unbuttoning Stiles' khakis, muttering ominously about the fate of all things button-fly. Stiles grits his teeth against the onslaught of sensation and concentrates on making sure the doors to both classrooms are locked. When his pants and underwear are bunched around his thighs, he looks down, waiting for Derek to do something. Instead, Derek's just sitting there, looking at Stiles' hard cock with a forlorn expression.

"Uh, dude?" Stiles asks.

"I . . ." Derek sighs and leans back, resting his hands on his legs. "Every time we do this, I promise that someday we won't rush."

"And someday we _won't_ ," Stiles says. He brushes his fingers over Derek's temple. "Someday we'll do this in a bed, in a room where our kids aren't one door away, on a day when we aren't half-dead from adrenaline crash. I want that, too, Derek, and I swear we'll get it. But today, it's been _four months_ since we've had this, and I don't want to wait."

That must've been the right thing to say, because ten seconds later, Stiles is discovering that Derek has no gag reflex.

Like he tells his students: learning is _awesome_.

Stiles holds his hands in fists against the wall and restrains his hips from bucking. Derek's mouth is a _revelation._ Like, Stiles could go on a vision quest in the fucking desert, and his vision would be Derek's mouth sucking his dick. That's how good he is, feathery licks interspersed with long strokes and strong suction and—

And stopping. Why is he stopping? There should never be stopping.

Stiles opens his eyes and sees Derek looking at him with an expression Stiles will call "fond yet frustrated." He's familiar with this expression, but not during sex. "What?"

"I don't know how," Derek says, "but you keep forgetting that I'm a _werewolf_." He flashes his eyes to drive his point home, and Stiles _cannot_ be held responsible for the whimper it draws out of him. The eyes _do things_ to him.

"No, you're right, I _do_ forget," he says, nodding eagerly. "Maybe you should do the eyes again to remind me. Or throw a little fang into it."

Now Derek looks like he's retracing the steps in their relationship to figure out how he missed what a weirdo Stiles is. Then he huffs and touches first Stiles' hand and then his hip. "Don't hold back," he growls. When Stiles tentatively slides a hand into Derek's hair, Derek gives an approving rumble and takes Stiles' cock back into his mouth.

At first it's no hardship to be gentle. Stiles maybe rocks his hips a little, but mostly he's too focused on Derek's glorious mouth to do much beyond running his hands through Derek's hair, enjoying the smooth, soft slide of it between his fingers. Then Derek swallows, throat muscles fluttering around Stiles' cock, and Stiles' hips buck. After that, all bets are off.

Stiles thrusts his hips in long, shallow rolls, and his hands tighten, directing Derek's head where he wants it, scratching over Derek's scalp when he does something particularly extraordinary. One of Derek's hands comes up and cups Stiles' balls. Stiles shudders and rests his head against the wall. He can't really see Derek's face from this angle, but he has the wetness of his mouth and the heat of his hand and the small, pleased moans he's making. Stiles' thrusts grow wild and off-kilter, and he is _so close_.

Without warning, Derek lets go of Stiles' balls, pulls messily off his cock, and blows on the head. Before Stiles has time to process that, Derek takes him in to the root and swallows hard while pressing his tongue flat against the vein.

Stiles' brain shorts out, and when it comes back online he's coming down Derek's throat and the whole world feels warm and fuzzy. He looks down at Derek and says, "Hnng." Then he laughs and slides down the wall, dragging his spent, sticky cock across Derek's lips and chin on the way.

Derek sits back and looks at Stiles, who blushes under the scrutiny. He's trying to commit that . . . that _thing_ Derek did at the end to memory, so he can return the favor ASAP.

Speaking of returning the favor—Stiles reaches out and makes lazy grabby hands at Derek. "Hey," he slurs, "lemme gedja back."

Derek laughs at Stiles' lack of brain as he fumbles Derek's pants open, but his laugh turns to ragged breaths once Stiles gets a hand around his dick. He closes his fingers over Stiles', and in no time he's spilling over their linked hands.

Because Derek can use his legs, unlike Stiles who's a pile of come-dumb goo, he's the one who stands and finds a roll of paper towels to clean them up. Then he sits between the vee of Stiles' legs with his back against Stiles' chest. Stiles hooks his chin over Derek's shoulder and breathes deep. "Man, you smell good," he says.

In his arms, Derek stills. He tilts his head so they can sort of look at each other. "Like what?"

"Come on," Stiles scoffs. "Like no one's ever described this to you."

"Just . . . humor me, Stiles. Please."

Stiles eyes him suspiciously but settles more comfortably against the wall and says, "Okay, you know that sharp smell air gets before it snows?" Derek nods. "So there's that. And there's orange. Like, fresh off the tree orange. And pine. You know how around Christmas there's so many pine trees and boughs and whatever that everything smells like pine and you don't even notice? Yeah. That." He scratches the side of his face. "And that's you. Sometimes you, uh, smell like leather, too, but that's just your jacket. I think."

Derek exhales shakily. "Thank you."

"Wow. That was, like, a really big deal for you, wasn't it?"

Derek takes a deep breath and says, "Smell is _the_ most important sense to werewolves. Having a partner describe our own scent to us is . . ." He trails off, and Stiles watches in fascination as a flush of pink runs up the back of his neck. His voice drops to a low rumble as he says, "It's a very intimate act."

Stiles' heart plummets. "Dude. I—" He swallows. "I'm sorry. If I'd known, I'd've been more—or been _less_ , or . . . I don't know, something."

"Hey, no," Derek says, craning his neck to catch Stiles' lips in a sweet, if awkward, kiss. "It was perfect because it was you. You shouldn't be able to—" He shakes his head. "I'd made peace with not getting to have it again. This is a gift."

The moment stretches between them until it's too weighted for Stiles to bear. "Great," he says cheekily. "Now do me."

Derek's blush comes back, which surprises Stiles. "I just _did_."

It's hard to speak through the laugh that bursts out of him. "No, I— _hah_!—I mean, do the—the scent thing."

"Oh." Derek blushes harder. He gives Stiles a brief kiss—at least, Stiles thinks that’s his intention, but Stiles isn’t letting _any_ of their kisses be brief today—and says, "Spearmint."

Stiles blinks. "Uh. What?"

"I'm doing you, Stiles," Derek deadpans. "Keep up." Stiles snorts a laugh and motions for him to continue. "Not the artificial stuff they put in toothpaste. Fresh leaves, like when you bruise them to put in a cocktail." Which Stiles finds weirdly specific yet endearing. "And ginger. Spring ginger, just cut. It's sharp, and it's lovely." Now Stiles is the one blushing. "Those two . . . float? on top. It's hard to describe to anyone who isn't a werewolf or a perfumer. But the base note, that's petrichor."

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up as high as they'll go. " _Petrichor_? And don't, no—" He holds up a hand as Derek opens his mouth. "I know what that is, but I—wow. I never imagined that someone telling me I smell like petrichor would be one of the most romantic moments in my life."

Derek shrugs and looks at the floor. "I grew up in a forest. It's a good smell for me. Homey."

"Well . . . good, then."

"Yeah. Really good," Derek says with a hint of a smirk.

Stiles sighs happily. "I love you," he says. He feels a flutter in his gut. If he'd known saying that would feel so good, he’d've done it ages ago. "You probably already know that."

Derek smiles. "I had my suspicions. I love you, too."

With that settled, Stiles would be content to stay on the floor for the rest of the afternoon, but Derek stands gracefully and holds out a hand. "Aw, verticality, no," Stiles mutters but takes the hand and clambers, much _less_ gracefully, to his feet.

"What're you doing now?" Derek asks once they're upright. "You cleaning out your room right away?"

" _Ohhhh,_ no," Stiles says. "My contract says I have eight business days after the end of classes to vacate the space, and I will take every last second." He narrows his eyes. "Why?"

Derek shrugs unconvincingly. "No reason. A woman I know from work is in this group—Globe and Beacon?—and they do this Picnic with the Bard thing every summer. It's _Taming of the Shrew_ this year, and I thought, maybe . . ." He looks away.

" _Shrew_ , huh?" Stiles asks. "You know that one's two hours of chauvinism and anal sex jokes, right?" Then he stops and rewinds Derek's words. "Wait. You and me? A picnic? _Shakespeare_? Like a date? Like an _actual date_?"

"Yeah," Derek says, rolling his eyes. "Like an actual date. But if you don't want—"

"Hell _yes_ I want!" Stiles crows, and he's no werewolf, but he swears he moves with supernatural speed to get out of the supply closet and across the classroom to his satchel. He turns and mostly doesn't jump when he discovers that Derek, with _actual_ supernatural speed (and stealth, too, damn him) has come up behind him. "Gah. Hi." Then he kisses Derek again, because his mouth is _right there_.

"Okay," Derek says when they move apart. "Let's do that."

They're almost to the door when Stiles stops and really _looks_ at Derek. His hair's mussed from where Stiles was pulling on it. His t-shirt has a tiny white stain, unnoticeable unless you're looking closely, that is surely connected to Dewey being _awful_ at glue, and his jeans have rips in the knees from playing in the preserve with the Hale pack kids. Stiles' chest clenches, and he can't have _any_ misunderstandings. "Hey," he says, "I don't mean just _this_ date, you know. I don't—" He licks his lips. "I don't even mean _just_ dates." He holds his breath and waits to see what new shape his world will take.

Derek's smile is small and pleased and a little surprised, like _he's_ the one who doesn't understand how he got so lucky. "Yeah," Derek says and reaches for Stiles' hand. "Let's do that, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments and kudos will be loved fiercely and watered daily. Follow me [on tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/) for periodic ramblings about this fic and other things which may be relevant to your interests.


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